The healing process
by malintzin
Summary: This story starts the night after Lavinia's funeral. Mary discovers that, contrary to what she always had imagined, she is not a lost cause. All she has to do is looking beyond the walls of Downton and discovering that, indeed, she and Richard make a good team, in difficult times and in happy moments as well. In this AU, Christmas Special never happens.
1. Prologue

So... after a very long hiatus, here 's my new attempt at fanfiction. This story is beta-ed by the wonderful mrstater whose fics _girl in black_ and _another chapter_ proved there was room for Richard/Mary stories after all...

Disclaimer: I don't own anything...

**PROLOGUE**

_Downton, April 17th, 1919_

The sound of a piano playing downstairs was the first evidence Mary was not the only one in the house having a difficult time to getting to sleep this night. She felt exhausted, she could tell, but sleep had eluded her ever since she had said goodnight a few hours ago and walked up the stairs to find solace in her room. However, this self-imposed isolation – from the carefully composed grief her family displayed while comforting a distraught cousin Matthew, and from the rawer shock that had left Anna and the rest of the staff haggard and utterly lost – did nothing to appease the guilt that gnawed at her.

_It was all her fault._

Lavinia died of a broken heart, Matthew declared solemnly in front of the grave, because he and Mary had been unable to resist their fateful and doomed attraction. They were cursed, really. And Bates… Bates was now in jail because he protected _her_ secret, and Anna had to suffer the sight of her husband of a few days accused, handcuffed and taken by two grim policemen, because of a brief moment a weakness and passion.

_It was all her fault._

Matthew's grief and guilt. Anna's distress and fear. Everything was deeply rooted in Mary's behavior, indecision and rash decisions. If anybody was cursed, she was the one. "I am a lost cause," she had cried years ago in front of her mother. And a lost cause she still was, most definitely. The sound of the piano made her hesitate, and she stopped her way down the stairs to the kitchen. She did not know what she was seeking down there, in a place she barely visited, if at all. However, unwanted company was the last thing she desired. She wanted to be alone, with her a guilt. She wanted to escape the ghosts that haunted her upstairs, and most of all in her own room, once her solace and now her very personal torture chamber. There were too many memories, too many unbearable memories: Pamuk dying in her bed, Matthew kissing her in the dining room, Anna sharing her wisdom and hopes while helping her prepare for dinner, Matthew, once more, reappearing suddenly in the library after having been declared _missing in action_ along with William, her own voice caught in her throat at the wonderful sight, Matthew, once more, unknowingly breaking her heart while he announced the date for his wedding to Lavinia…

The piano stopped finally, and the distinct smell of cheap tobacco filled the air. This was quite peculiar. As far as Mary knew, which was not much, she had to concede, only Thomas, O´Brien and sometimes Bates were known to indulge in this habit. Bates was not present obviously, and neither O'Brien nor Thomas played the piano. This had been William's prerogative before he decided to put a uniform on and fight _the Huns_… Mary could not help being a little curious, and she resumed her way down as another tune began resounding in the kitchen. After a few martial accords, the notes rushed like some incantation, invoking the wind and pouring of a summer storm, or a never ending breathless cavalcade. It was the kind of tune the music teacher insisted Mary and her sisters had to perform, with no success. Even Edith, the most gifted Crawley daughter in this particular area, never managed to strike the right tempo, the right technique, much to Mary's relief… Sighing, she put an end to her musings – thinking of her rivalry with her sibling was the last thing she needed since the very thought of her sister started the path down to the unwanted memory of Pamuk – and she reached the kitchen at last, not daring to cross the threshold, content to observe the improbable and seemingly insomniac piano player without perturbing his concentration.

An unguarded Richard Carlisle was not a common occurrence, indeed, and Mary could not help but feel like a _voyeur _while she studied the way his lips soundlessly hummed the notes his fingers were playing, the way his right arm moved graciously along the movements of his hand, the way he inclined his head while his touch on the keyboard became light as a feather, suddenly producing notes she could barely hear. Mary thought she knew her fiancé and was rather unsettled by the pianist in front of her.

At first, she had been attracted to his handsome features, his snide banter and, to be honest, his money and ambition. There was also some mystery attached to this surprising character. _Sir_ Richard was a social climber indeed, a self-made man as he liked to proclaim, anxious to be part of the upper-class, but, at the same time, he appeared to consider the world in general, and the nobility in particular, with a detached, cynical amusement. Such a paradox had intrigued her since their first meeting and had prompted her to accept his first invitation to dance, then the second. However, this had been when she thought she could envision a life outside Downton. This had been before Matthew came back into her life, and the doubts and dreams and insecurities crept back to the forefront of her slowly mending head and heart.

Suddenly, in spite of the war, in spite of the existence of Lavinia even, the long lost dream of a life with Matthew, in Downton, went and shattered all the healing process the regular trips to London had symbolized. London became a vulgar place, unworthy of her presence – except when she had needed Richard's help, of course – because this was the city where Richard lived and _worked_ and _made money _while Matthew was sacrificing his life for the King and Country. Haxby, which she had admired so much when she was little became vulgar and vain as well, as soon as Richard bought it. The ambitious Scot who had intrigued her in London morphed into a pompous and blackmailing newspaper man as she compared him to the heroic heir of Downton. She was not worthy of Matthew's love, but moving on was simply impossible, unimaginable, unthinkable. So she consciously and unconsciously sabotaged her relationship to Richard at every step. And, God knows, he had been a great partner in this dance, threatening her, blackmailing her, manipulating people around him, making it easy for everybody in the house to hate and despise him. Like a bull facing a red rag, he had rushed, charging to the merest provocation, comforting her in the idea that this relationship was a toxic one, comforting the whole family in the idea that Mary's future and Downton's future depended on the same man, Matthew…

_And now? The man she wanted had burnt all the bridges, and she did not know the first thing about the one she was supposed to marry..._

* * *

The piano was bad, and was in dire need of some serious tuning, but it was still a piano, and playing always had a soothing effect on him. It was a school of concentration and focus in which anger had no place. "This is quite simple," his mother used to say when he struggled with his frustrations. "Keep on like that, and you'll never be able to produce a decent sound. Take a breath, run around the corner, calm down, and you'll finish the piece in no time." Thirty years later, it was still the kind of advice he followed respectfully, especially in the unnerving, frustrating atmosphere of Downton.

Usually, the few days he spent on a regular basis in Yorkshire left him bitter and angry, as his appointments on Monday mornings could testify. Ever since the announcement of the engagement – not his smartest move nor his most considerate gesture, granted, but Mary wanting to pay him off for his services like a mere employee after keeping their agreement secret for months had managed to push him off the edge of decency – the weekly routine had been the same. He boarded on the train to Yorkshire every other Friday hoping to find a better situation, impatient to meet Mary again, much to his growing shame. Saturdays could range from bearable to utterly unbearable and hurtful, depending on a certain man's presence. Most Sundays left him wondering why he kept doing this to himself. As a result, he was a true nightmare on Monday mornings, so much that his own employees had nicknamed the day after his routine visit to Yorkshire _Black Monday_. The rest of the week usually rushed in blur. The week-ends he did not spend in Downton were spent at the hospital where his nephew was slowly but surely suffocating from exposure to mustard gas. Then, he started another week, calmer. Then came Thursdays when he found he missed Mary dearly and booked his ticket to Downton, ashamed at his own behavior. Richard Carlisle was a proud man, too proud for his own good one might comment, yet, he kept on coming back for more humiliation. He was a rational man as well, and recognized when a situation did not deserve anymore investment, yet he kept coming back hoping against all odds for an unrealistic chance.

_A fool in love_.

This was what he was, unable to put an end to a hopeless relationship, desperate for a smile or some attention. Sometimes, the man he was becoming while in Downton quite disgusted him. He did not even like Yorkshire and he still bought an estate there, spending the money he had reserved to buy and restore some castle in the Highlands. He was a manipulative and cynical bastard, everybody in the London place knew it, but asking a servant to spy on his fiancée was something he would never have seen himself doing. Work was one thing, and private life another, normally. He did it nonetheless. Groping arms, commanding, threatening… What was happening to him? This place, and this situation, seemed to nurture the worst and darkest sides of his personality, and it made him sad.

Whatever he did, it was the wrong thing to do or to say. Dinners were particularly painful when he could feel each pair of eyes, assessing, judging him, considering him like a stranger. Worst of all, Mary often acted as if he was not here at all, or as though his very presence was an inconvenience. What the hell was he doing here? He could enjoy the weekend with his friends in London, visit his family in Edinburgh, or spend the night with Isabel, the Mexican painter who was so fond of him back in 1916, and would appreciate him visiting sometime soon. when they met again at the inauguration of her new exposition last week. "_No me le creo, Rico_, _te convertiste en un monje_," she had mocked him, giving him her brand new address in North London when they met again at the inauguration of her new exposition last week.

_A fool in love._

Of course, he had ignored the very tempting invitation, and instead, against all reason, he had booked the first train to Yorkshire as soon as he has heard about the bout of flu in Downton. The whole trip had been a nightmare as his imagination went wild. In Leicester, he pictured Mary fainting from exhaustion because she had kept vigil by her mother's bedside all night. In Sheffield, he hoped she would be reasonable and stay the hell away from the sick, Lavinia and her damn fiancé especially. In Bradford, he could not help but visualizing a coughing and feverish Mary, lying in her bed. Witnessing Michael's worsening condition week after week made him paranoid. When he had arrived in Downton, the very sight of Mary, healthy and snob and snarky, was such a relief that he almost did not mind that, once again, she had managed to invite Cousin Matthew in the conversation. "Poor Matthew," she lamented when he was stuck in his chair, but otherwise perfectly healthy and alive, contrary to too many men. "Poor Matthew," she cried when he was afflicted by his fiancée's sickness. Matthew this. Matthew that. "Poor Matthew," she managed in a blank voice even when he stepped on Mary and made her share the burden of his own guilt. Richard had behaved badly, he could recognize that much, and wished he had it in him to find the words to apologize, but seeing this big hypocritical heir as he imposed his egoism on _his_ own fiancée again and again was unbearable.

He was still reeling from the scene he witnessed earlier this morning at the graveyard, and no amount of Beethoven seemed to appease his seething mind. His right middle finger and ring finger mixed up a difficult crescendo passage but he managed to keep on with the phrase. "She died of broken heart…" As if Spanish flu was not a reasonable enough explanation! "We are cursed, you and I…" His left thumb touched two keys at the same time, producing a rather discordant sound. All of a sudden, Richard stopped playing and punched the keyboard.

_No use in butchering Beethoven anymore…__  
_

* * *

The sudden interruption and the unexpected outburst caught Mary by surprise, and her first reflex was retreating down the corridor. She did not know what to do with this unguarded moment she'd just witnessed; she did not want to embarrass him, or herself. However, at the same time, the sight had been oddly comforting, the music soothing, and for a few minutes, she had forgotten her guilt… So the young woman stood there, in the shadows, hoping her fiancé would not notice her presence. Unfortunately, Mary never had been very good at hide and seek – this always had been Edith's area of expertise, much to her jealousy – and she discovered her hiding place was in fact in plain view when Richard turned around to reach for his cigarettes.

"I didn't know I had an audience," he stated as he cracked a match, oblivious to the fact there was a _lady_ in front of him. This simple gesture, the mere fact he was smoking cigarettes and not the cigar, and the open bottle of beer on the table, the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, his whole attitude indicated that the kitchen had somewhat become his lair over the course of time. One more thing she did not know about Richard.

_This was unsettling._

"Mrs Patmore is going to have a fit when she will learn how comfortable you are in _her_ kitchen," she teased. Snide remarks appeared to be her only weapon left to hide both the guilt that had led her down the stairs and the confusion the present scene was provoking in her mind.

"Mrs Patmore and I have an agreement," he exhaled a puff of smoke and reached for his beer. "I can do as I please as long I leave the place like I found it." He smiled, a rare occurrence. "Great place to work, bad piano nonetheless, but it does possess the merit of being in a place where I won't disturb anyone," Richard commented as he gestured around him.

"False modesty does not suit you, Richard." This unwanted, veiled compliment surprised him as much as herself.

"Actually, I am content just playing for myself. I am selfish that way," he replied, studying her face intently for a few seconds before adding with a pointed stare. "Now we have commented on my nightly, insomniac habits, let's talk about your presence here, which isn't a common occurrence, I believe."

Typical Richard. _When cornered, always strike back._ He could use this adage as a motto the day he would obtain a lordship and a coat of arms…

Mary stood there, unable to talk back as she realized he was reading through her like an open book, and, for once, he did not bother to hide his perceptive gaze behind a veil of badly imitated aristocratic coldness. His blue eyes were unwavering and pinned her in place; his face did not betray a single emotion. The only indicator of his mood was his right hand playing nervously with the match box.

What could she answer to such a pointed question, and the veiled interrogation behind it she did not want to recognize? _What are you doing here? _There was no easy answer that would allude to her guilt and the ghosts she tried to flee. _Are you alright?_ There was no way she would admit to Richard how much Matthew had hurt her this morning, absolutely none at all. The way she had clung to his arm, and the comfort she had found in his mere presence by her side while walking back to Downton had been a moment of weakness she wanted to forget.

Mary closed her eyes and sighed, as if those gestures would make the inquisitive stare go away. However, when she finally looked back at him, she discovered through unshed tears he had left his chair and was walking to her, hands in his pockets, still staring at her.

"Nothing's your fault, y'know," he almost whispered, his face serious but not unkind, his usual carefully controlled accent suddenly slipping back to his Scottish roots. A few steps more and he reached the spot she had been glued to since he had noticed her presence in the room.

Then, in spite of every rule of good breeding, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace. "Nothing's your fault," Richard repeated as he stroked her back in a soothing motion.

_This was most unsettling_.

Sir Richard Carlisle did not comfort people, didn't he?

And Lady Mary Crawley should not find any comfort in arms others than Matthew's, should she?

* * *

The first thing Richard saw when he glimpsed Mary standing on the threshold of the kitchen was how pale she was. Then, as they exchanged some futile banter about Mrs Patmore and her sacred territory, he noticed her eyes, red with lack of sleep and unshed tears. She was physically and morally exhausted, it was obvious to anyone caring to observe, and yet, she managed to maintain this aristocratic, cold composure that drove him crazy at times.

_The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley._

Most of time, he let her think that her act convinced him as it seemed to convince everybody around her. However, tonight, he had little patience for these games and aimed at the throat out of the blue. He immediately hated himself for the pain his lucid interrogation inflicted on his fiancée, but he managed to force his expression into a neutral mask – in London, his rivals and his partners as well had learnt to fear his poker face – and kept on examining her, the way she worried her bottom lip while considering his question, the way she crossed her arms in a defensive posture, the way her sigh sounded almost like a strangled sob. Mary never answered him. To be true, she did not need to, her whole attitude being a clear enough indication of the toll the past few days had taken on the young woman. He went on examining the quivering form, fighting against the surge of pity and the urge to comfort her that threatened to overwhelm him.

What the hell was he doing here? Why was he hesitating? She was his fiancée, for goodness' sake! If he did not help Mary in this situation, when would he ever comfort her? However, the remembrance of their confrontation in his office when she asked for his help to bury the Pamuk story was still a stinging memory. She did not want his help; she had made sure he understood that as she proposed to pay him back. The evocation alone of this moment and its consequences was enough to keep him motionless in his chair…Mary did not want him, period.

_The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley._

Then, the thought that had prompted him to seek refuge in his familiar lair tonight crept back to the forefront of his thoughts. Lavinia's funeral easily could have been Mary's, and only some mysterious medical hazard had protected her as she exactly did everything that exposed her to contamination. Hell! He had witnessed young people dying from the flu without previous contact with a sick person, in his own staff, in his home, at the office. His father in Edinburgh commented in a letter earlier this year about the paralysis that struck the city, the visible fear in the street, how people avoided one another as much as possible. Michael's barely recovering lungs had not resisted the bout of flu he suffered last January, and he was now dying, stuck in a London hospital, thousands miles from his family in New Zealand. It could have been Mary, and nobody seemed to care, even herself. Richard shook his head angrily. Of course she did not care! She was too busy berating herself and convincing herself she was obviously cursed!

Unable to help himself anymore, he got up and walked to her with feigned nonchalance. He blurted out some whispered reassurance and his emotions got the better of him, as the slip back to his Scottish brogue indicated. The dam had broken. Never leaving her eyes and, for once, without thinking, he engulfed Mary in a tight embrace, reassuring her, soothing her, and taking comfort in her warmth, proof she was not the one in her grave.

_The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley felt good in his arms._

* * *

Richard's unexpected show of affection had paralyzed Mary, and it took her a few moments to accept the very idea to relax in his embrace. She should not accept such a common behavior. She should berate him. Yet, she could not bring herself to do anything but accept the comfort he was offering her at the end of this hellish day. More than the gesture, the repeated words – _Nothing's your fault_ – felt like a balm on her guilty mind. Oh! She had wanted to hear these simple words so much today! And they never came… Instead, she still could feel the sting of Matthew's terrible declaration – _We are cursed, you and I_ – and the weight of his accusing eyes. In spite of her love for him, she could not help but revolt a little at the thought he intended to make her share the load of his guilt and poor choices. However, she could not deny there was some truth in this declaration: her own poor choices since the Pamuk incident had caused much grief to the people around her, Matthew, Anna, Bates…She did not deserve to be happy with Matthew, he was right. She even did not deserve Richard, the blackmailing newspaper man and the nonchalant pianist.

"I am a lost cause," she murmured the same way she had uttered similar words to her mother.

The complaint did not escape her fiancé's attention. The soothing hand stopped its movement at once and she felt him catch her shoulder firmly as he stepped back to stare at her in disbelief.

"Beg your pardon?" he replied sharply. "Tell me I didn't quite hear that nonsense." His Scottish accent became heavier with each uttered word.

"You heard Matthew at the funeral!" she answered feebly. "It is because of us that…"

"Enough!" he barked, his eyes angry and sad at the same time, before walking to the chair where he had laid his suit coat. When he offered her the garment, he commented in calmer tone: "Good thing you didn't change into your nightgown yet. Let's have a walk, shall we?" Then he made sure she had wrapped his coat around her shoulders, took her hand and led her outside, lighting another cigarette on their way out.

Walking in the middle of the night with her heels was an awkward matter, and she had to cling to Richard's arm to keep her footing. He, on the other hand, seemed comfortable with the moonlight and eluded the traps of the road easily. Night birds and other animals gave a strange life to the woods surrounding them, but Richard paid them no mind whereas she could not help but look right and left, alerted as she was by the merest sound. A few minutes passed, and she became accustomed to the darkness at last, and stopped tripping with every other step she made. She still clung to his arm, but only because Richard's proximity made her feel warm. A few minutes more passed by, and the sounds of the woods lost their worrying quality and, rather unexpectedly, Mary began to enjoy the surreal atmosphere. They soon reached the confines of Downton, then walked past the deserted village, finally stopping in the graveyard by the church.

Without hesitating, Richard led her through the tombs to the most recent ones. It was too dark to decipher the names and the dates, but she could easily visualize them, recognize them, even.

Young men she barely knew who died as soon as August 1914 or as late as November 1918.

Entire families wiped out when the flu had reached Downton last summer or, more recently, in the past days.

William.

_Lavinia…_

* * *

"These are lost causes, Mary," Richard broke the silence at last, his voice soft, tender almost. "_You_ are alive. _You _still have a future." He paused, taking a shaky breath as the memory of a past conversation with Michael came back to him. "You're young. You survived the damn flu, your mother as well. You can't give up; on the contrary, you should count your blessings, and _move on_."

He had pronounced the last few words more harshly than he intended, but the hell with that. The emotions of the day and the beers he had drunk in the kitchen caused him to reveal much more about himself than he was comfortable with. He went on anyway in soft voice as he took her limp hands:

"I know I counted mine today."

Was it the tone he had used? The words? Mary's head snapped back up and she considered him as if she looked at his face for the very first time.

"It was never a business arrangement." It was not a question.

He shook his head, even she barely could distinguish the movement in the darkness.

"Why me?" _This_ was a question, and an unexpected one at that.

"Why not you?" he shot back, unable to form a coherent answer. When did they start about his damn feelings by the way?

"Why?" she insisted, her voice quivering with self-doubt.

"Here we are," Richard thought as he considered the figure in front of him. For all her pride and snob demeanor, Mary really thought she was a lost cause…

"Because you make me curious," he answered as trustfully as he could. "You are a puzzle and I'll need a lifetime to solve it, that's why I want to marry you. The fact that you're beautiful is an added bonus," he deadpanned. Then, more seriously, he concluded, "And, for some unknown reason, I'm happy when I'm around you."

"Richard, I…" He could hear the confusion in her voice. "I didn't realize… I am…"

"An idiot, and so am I," he finished for her. Goodness, he hated this kind of conversation. The sooner it was over, the better he was. He never liked express himself with words, which was quite the paradox considering his job. "We make quite the pair, don't you think?" Richard concluded, anxious to put an end to a situation in which he feared he had revealed too much. His tongue always had been sharp to insult or threaten people, however, he always had been more at ease with physical demonstration as a mode of expression of his passions or affections. So he lit one last cigarette, wrapped his arm around her shivering shoulders, and led her on the way back to Downton in a comfortable silence.


	2. Post war realities : Seeking refuge

Well, first of all, many thanks to all of you who had taken time to read and comment. I'm glad there are people out there interested in _what ifs_ and alternate takes on Downton abbey's story. Just like **sierrac**, CS really rubbed me the wrong way for many reasons, and especially the Crawleys' behavior. So here is this little AU...

A big thank you for **mrstater** who is a great beta and motivator...

I don't own anything.

**PART ONE: Realities of war**

**Chapter one: Seeking refuge**

_Downton, April 18th, 1919_

Anna looked like a frail automaton this morning, and the dark red paper of the bedroom enhanced almost cruelly her pale face and haggard eyes.

Mary observed her maid – her confidante, her friend even, in the mirror as she finished her hair with slightly trembling hands. When another pin grazed her scalp, she schooled her face and managed not to wince. The poor woman had to suffer the sight of her husband of a few days dragged by two implacable policemen, and she really did not need to suffer her mistress' petty complaints about pins and a pinched scalp. If anything, the recent events, and the more recent unexpected, unsettling conversation with Richard, had made her realize the existence of the concept of relativity.

_Count your blessings._

More than anything, these were the words that had occupied her mind since the nighttime visit to the graveyard. Those were frightening and liberating words at the same time: frightening because they forced her to consider the world with a new, more lucid stare; liberating because they opened possibilities she had a difficult time to apprehend. The hidden message behind the words was even more perturbing. Of course Richard had not pronounced the words, but it was impossible to miss the implication: "You and your family don't realize how lucky you are." After the last confrontation with Matthew, after Bates' arrest, she would not have accepted such a revolting statement. Matthew had been stuck in a wheelchair, initially condemned not to walk again, not to ever have children... It had been truly a miracle, and this miracle had been repaid by Lavinia's unjust death. Anna and Bates only had a glimpse of happiness before seeing their world utterly shattered. However, this morning, she could not help to appreciate the whole situation in a new light.

_Count your blessings._

Mama had survived her ordeal in spite of everything. Now, Mary felt quite ashamed that she had let herself caught in Matthew's tragedy. What if her mother had passed away when she had been busy worrying about the cousin who was not marrying her? She had not opened her eyes for more than a few seconds this morning before she had decided she was going to spend a long, long moment by her mother's side after luncheon. The second decision she had made concerned Anna as well.

"Anna?" she asked softly, trying not to start her maid – there was a limit to the abuse her scalp could endure. "Sir Richard and I had a talk yesterday, and we agreed a change of scenery would be a good thing, for myself, and for you as well," she explained, carefully studying Anna's expression.

The young woman looked quite stunned, but Mary was not sure if it was because of the mention of an _agreement_ between Richard and her, or because of the nature of the proposition.

"I will stay for a few days at my Aunt's house as usual, but if you accept to go with me, I will not have to suffer her maid's sullen mood," she went on, trying to diffuse the tension with a last snide remark.

Anna's red eyes searched hers in the mirror.

"I thank you for the attention, My Lady," she admitted at last with a broken voice. "I really would appreciate a change of scenery, as you say."

Mary smiled reassuringly as she got up, even if, deep down, she did not know how her father would react at this decision, so soon after the funeral, and Sybil's departure.

_Count your blessings… and move on._

* * *

Printed words always had been Richard's shield against the world. Newspapers, books, pamphlets, it made no matter. As long he could read something, anything, he was a happy man. Printed words did not nag you endlessly, and, if you knew to choose them carefully, they were often much more interesting than the idiotic ramblings people usually uttered around him. Most of all, they did not possess Lord Grantham's pompous affectation, and it was a blessing. He had been visiting Downton for quite some time now, and the man did not seem to understand he was not interested _at all_ in his views and commentaries about the tragic loss of power the Lords Chamber had suffered. More exactly, he was not interested in anything the man was saying.

Richard had known since the very beginning, since his very first visit back in 1916 that Grantham did not like him, and considered him as if he was an inconvenient impediment to his daughter's true happiness and the bright future of Downton. Well, the sentiment was more than reciprocal… Ignoring the man's ramblings – after all, he had a reputation of ill breeding to maintain – he poured himself some more tea – one thing they did right here – and resumed his reading of Potocki's _Manuscrit trouvé à Saragosse_, lamenting one more time that nobody had managed to fund a translation to English yet. His practice of French was rusty, and the book, fascinating as it was, revealed itself a bit complicated in its structure.

He had been reading the same sentence for the third time when the noise on his left got louder, demanding his attention. Richard sighed as he closed his book.

"So, if I understand correctly, you leave with the two o'clock train, you will be back tomorrow for luncheon, then you will need the car again to get the four o'clock train to London," Robert clarified, not even attempting to hide his disapproval at learning Richard's plans for the day and the day after. "I have to wonder what you find so interesting in Hull. Don't you own enough newspapers yet in London?" In spite of the intonation, this was not a question, and Richard could feel that in the Earl's eyes, he was guilty as charged. How could he dare going on with his business when the heir of Downton, the surrogate son, had lost his dear fiancée nobody really accepted? He stared at his host coldly. Bloody hell! He was fed up with this game!

"Actually, as a major shareholder of Hull FC, I just want to visit the new installations and check the recent dispositions the board took for the junior sections of the club," he shot back, not caring anymore to hide his involvement in the hateful, shameful and professional _Rugby League_. Richard had learned very soon that it was vital to diversify his investments and revenues. And he happened to like rugby, a lot, as much as he enjoyed a good provocation.

"Hull FC?" Robert parroted, clearly disapproving. "You do not mean you support these _professionals_…" He almost spat, the disgust evident in his voice. It was a very familiar inflection, the same he used when Richard spoke about his projects for Haxby.

"Well, as a former player for the London Scottish, I prefer the Rugby Union," he conceded, revealing at the same time that his marrying into nobility and buying an estate were not his first incursion into aristocratic territory. "Let's say I became one of those 'boys who could afford to take a holiday for football any day they like!' like the Reverend Marshall said in this old cartoon," he deadpanned, studying his host's reddening face. Then, he concluded as he reached for his book once again: "However, as an investor, I agree with James Miller and 'I see no reason why the men who make the money shouldn't have a share in the spending of it'."

The grimace on Grantham's face was almost worth abandoning the outlaws in the mysterious _Sierra Morena_ for a few moments. Almost.

* * *

As she entered the breakfast room, Mary first met Carson's slightly concerned stare and tried to appease the loyal butler with a timid smile. This smile, or her general demeanor, seemed to satisfy her oldest friend who acknowledged her reassurance with an imperceptible movement of his head.

"Good morning Carson," she announced herself more formally before taking her seat by Richard's side, without thinking how unusual her behavior was to an outsider more accustomed of her endless efforts to sit as far as it was socially acceptable from her fiancé.

"Good morning my Lady," he answered, barely able to conceal how puzzled he was by action. "Mrs Patmore has opened a pot of cherry marmalade this morning," he went on, describing the breakfast the cook had prepared today for the family and their guest. This last detail made Mary smile genuinely in spite of her best effort to hide her almost childish reaction.

_Cherry marmalade. Of course._

Only Carson knew how to raise her spirit…It was at times like this one she really regretted the chain of idiotic behavior, on Richard's part, and, to be honest, on her part, which had made the butler refuse the position at Haxby. With measured, controlled, _ladylike_ gestures, she reached for the bread, butter and marmalade as Carson poured her a cup of tea in his usual, formal way. As she took a bite in her toast, she caught Richard smirking before closing his book. In a barely audible tone, he commented, clearly amused:

"So, cherry marmalade, isn't it? Interesting piece of information." Then more seriously, but still in a low, careful voice, he added: "How are you this morning?"

Mary did not know what surprised her more, the fact that Richard could actually pay attention to his surroundings while reading – she had come to compare him to a bull-terrier with a bone when he had a book or a paper in his hands – or the unmistakable, gentle concern in his voice.

"Better, thanks to you," she answered truthfully in a whisper. Indeed, his harsh words from the night before had forced her to consider her entire world from a new perspective. "Unfortunately, I will not be able to go to the train station this afternoon," she went on more loudly in order to include her father in the difficult conversation to come. She noticed her tirade had the desired effect as she noticed a satisfied and approving smirk appearing on her father's lips. "I'd like to spend the afternoon with Mama before going to London," she explained at last.

The last sentence had the expected effect as well, and a clearly disappointed Lord Grantham closed his paper angrily, his eyes bright with hurt and disappointment.

"Mary, do you really think it is the right time to go have fun in _London_?" he asked, his contempt for the capital and its distractions obvious in the way he stressed on the last word.

"Actually, _having fun_ is quite far from my mind since I was thinking to take Anna with me," she shot back coldly. "You have to acknowledge that the last few days had been very difficult for many people, not just Matthew," she went on, not knowing what devil had pushed her to formulate the last part of this sentence. The meaning behind her father's pointed question had been too clear, and, suddenly, all the bitterness and even jealousy she had felt towards the _heir_ who had stolen her Papa's attention and affection came back, stronger than ever. She was tired, so very tired, and wanted to leave, now. How could she make her father understand without burning bridges, without revealing Matthew's not so bright behavior, without revealing her own shameful secret?

"Lord Grantham, it was my idea, I apologize if you find it untimely," Richard interrupted the exchange, in a tone which was not apologetic at all. "My sister's eldest son is very ill in London and I would like to offer him a last family reunion for his birthday," he explained, his cold, blue eyes never leaving her father's. "Since Mary is going to be part of the family, we really would appreciate her presence with us; and my father, who is visiting from Edinburgh this week, would be very glad to meet his future daughter-in-law _at last_," he added as he turned to her and took her hand rather awkwardly, an apologetic, slightly goofy smile on his face.

Even she was grateful for the interruption, Mary felt she should be angry at her fiancé for, one more time, making decision without consulting her first. However, the hidden meaning – "_my family will be happy to welcome you"_ – was too obvious to ignore, and she did not know how to deal with it. Until today, she never had thought about her future in-laws… Moreover, his apologetic smile clearly indicated the words he just had uttered caught him by surprise as much they had surprised her.

_Sir Richard Carlisle was improvising…for her sake?_

* * *

_Downton, April 19th, 1919_

The four o'clock train to London was late, again. Punctuality on the secondary lines of Yorkshire had not made its reappearance with the end of the war, and Richard started to wonder if the local trains ever had been punctual at all…For the third time in less than ten minutes, he suppressed a yawn and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. As usual, his short stay in Hull had produced very interesting results – the club really was putting the war behind, and, moreover, he had the feeling the young guns would have a real shot for the title in the next few years – but exhausting. The principal chairman, who used to play for the club in the 1890's and early 1900's, considered a reunion of the board unsuccessful without a few gallons of beer. The fact that Richard, the second chairman, was a Scot and a former player himself – even if it was _Rugby Union_ – seemed encourage the damn fellow further. Fortunately, Steve Travis had been out of whiskey the night before… He barely contained a fourth yawn as the train finally made its apparition in the station. Heavens! Where were the days when he was able to outdrink a bloody Russian?

Smoke filled the air and the train stopped. Almost immediately, people started to board, and, in his peripheral vision, he could see Brooks gathering his suitcases, Mary's and Anna's. Richard sighed, still amazed that his ridiculous improvisation had convinced Lord Grantham to let his daughter go. For the future, he noted that playing with the earl's guilty chord could be quite effective. However, he mused as he considered his fiancée standing by his side, quietly chatting with Anna, he still did not believe Mary had not slapped him at the breakfast table. He had been close to the 'announcement in the papers' level of manipulation… In the end, it had worked quite smoothly, and he was grateful, very grateful. Moreover, the conversation between Mary and her father had been moving quickly towards ugly territories, and he was glad he had been able to put an end to it. The haunted face he had witnessed the night of the funeral was something he did not want to see ever again.

_It was high time to start behaving like a goddam adult…_

_If Matthew or Mary's family were not able to do this, well, this was their problem._

A soft but ironic voice interrupted his musings: "Richard, do you want to board on the train or do you prefer to spend your evening there?"

Richard smiled as he escorted his fiancée and her maid to their compartment.

_She had changed indeed…_

* * *

The train had gone past Sheffield and Anna enjoyed the silence very much.

Well, it was a relative silence, since the noise produced by the locomotive and the wagons was quite deafening. However, she was grateful that her improbable traveling companions seemed to be absorbed either by the contemplation of the running landscape or by a book. She still had a difficult time accepting how much her life had been shattered in the last forty-eight hours. It was so unfair. Maybe it was the punishment for having been so egotistical for once in her life: she had been so happy, so deliriously happy, whereas misery had spread its wing upon Downton. She had been oblivious, preoccupied by her own happiness only, and, now she was paying for it.

"I'm a trooper," she had once replied to a worried Mrs Hughes, when Mr Bates, no, John, when John had left Downton to go back to his wife. Today, a trooper she was not, and, one more time, her throat constricted, her eyes filled with tears. Anna tried to fight them – she did not want to make a fool of herself in front of her mistress or, God forbid, her fiancé – to no avail. In a last attempt to hide her grief, she turned to the window, only to discover the reflection of a pair of blue eyes fixed on her.

Instinctively, she tried to escape the implacable examination and closed her own eyes. The lack of passion expressed by Lady Mary when she spoke of him had influenced her own perception of the man; the forced announcement of the engagement and his implication in Vera Bates' dirty business had worsened her opinion. And that was before he had asked her to _spy_ on Lady Mary! Anna did not like him. However, when she opened her teary eyes again, he was still watching her, and his eyes were not unkind. Moreover, there was pity in his stare, and even a certain form of understanding. After a few seconds, he sighed, handed her his handkerchief, leant back in his seat and closed his eyes.

When they reached Leicester, Richard Carlisle was snoring softly, his face relaxed, his expression almost boyish, his head on Lady Mary's shoulder. As for her mistress, Anna could see that, in spite of her appalled expression, she was quite amused. For the first time since the fateful day of John's arrest, the maid let a timid smile form on her lips. Maybe she could bring herself to believe Lady Mary's recent and most surprising assertion of her fiancé.

_Sir Richard was not so terrible after all._


	3. Post war realities : Memories

Well, one more time, thank you for the lovely reviews... They made my day. It is a pleasure to share this attempt at AU with y'all.

A huge thank you to mrstater for her encouraging words and precise corrections.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, bla, bla, bla

Chapter two: Memories

London, April 25th, 1919

"Good afternoon, Mary. Where's Lady Rosamund?" Richard said by way of greeting as Mary stepped into the dining room of his London townhouse, her arrival announced by the butler – Wallace if she reminded correctly. She considered her fiancé as he stalked across her and was ashamed to find him extremely attractive this day. The man seemed to possess the ability to transform appalling, casual clothes – light grey tennis trousers and v-neck sweater, white shirt and blue-grey scarf along with two-tones shoes – into the most elegant wear. Suddenly, she was glad her aunt had decided not to come and chaperone her: at least, nobody in Downton would hear about Richard's terrible faux-pas. The fact that she could enjoy the sight of a casually dressed Richard Carlisle and that, in the course of a few days, she had begun to appreciate his attentions much more than she should had nothing to do with her relief, nothing at all.

"I think she was sufficiently impressed by your father the other day to deem him a worthy chaperone," she replied, trying to hide the unexpected rush of pleasure as he made immediate profit of Aunt Rosamund's absence and, instead of contenting himself with the usual, chaste kiss on the cheek, tenderly brushed his lips to hers, lingering a little more than was acceptable, his right hand on her hip.

"What impressed her more? The fact that he's the only man alive who can call me an idiot and get away with that?" he deadpanned. "Or the fact I can't help feeling like a fifteen year old when he's around?" He led her to the terrace where his father and his nephew were waiting, his hand never leaving her hip.

Was it the moment they had shared the evening of the funeral? Was it because he was back in familiar territory? Whatever the reason was, Richard had been more much more demonstrative in his affections, as Aunt Rosamund had commented the day before, her eyes piercing and inquisitive as ever. This had been the first surprise of her stay in London. The second surprise, much more unexpected, was that she really enjoyed such gestures, most notably because they reminded why her she had invited him to Downton in the first place. Richard Carlisle was charming when he wanted.

_Cliveden, July 12th, 1916_

_For the tenth time in the evening, Mary questioned the wisdom of her presence at this ball. The great hall of Cliveden was the scenery of a rather appalling, and sad, comedy. In a futile effort to maintain the spirit of the Season during wartime, balls kept on being organized in London, and Cliveden was the place the aristocratic youth tended to regroup these days. If the impression of assisting to a bad comedy - a feeling that never had left her since her debut years before - was still overwhelming, it was clear that this travesty was nothing but the feeble ghost of idealized, pre-war times. The growing disparity between female and male attendance was a first sign. The more or less visible injuries the men suffered – crutches or an ugly scar here, a limp or a lost arm there, exhausted, haunted eyes everywhere – was another, poignant one. Aunt Rosamund had commented that it was more and more difficult to make a good marriage, and that was the reason why she had insisted so much on her niece's attendance at this ball. Strangely enough, her aunt seemed to make her personal mission to find her a husband. Was it because she felt somewhat guilty for her ill-advised role in the failure of Mary's engagement to Matthew?_

_However, Mary could not bring herself to care, for the wounded and for her prolonged single status to an advanced age. Lately, she even had reached this level of indifference about everything that had happened before the war._

_Matthew_

_Pamuk_

_She did not care anymore._

_She sighed. The ball offered a rather pitiful show: the few healthy, relatively young and still single men – a rare occurrence these days – gathered all the female attention, wanted or unwanted. The most ruthless ones seemed to enjoy the situation too much and were not that different from rude children in front of an overflowing plate of chocolates, picking up one then the other until they found what they liked. Others already had made a choice, and tried to discourage the concurrence as gently as possible – something Matthew would do._

_One lone figure looked as if he wished he were a hundred miles from the great hall, and considered the comedy playing in front of him with a rather bored expression. An obviously healthy, tall, blond gentleman with an athletic figure, he attracted few attentions, quite paradoxically. Her curiosity piqued, Mary started to observe the mysterious man and soon understood the root of the lack of attention. Quietly sipping his champagne, his left hand in his pocket, he managed to shoot down each and every attempt at engaging conversation. Lady Margaret Fitzpatrick, a pretty red-haired doll, walked back, as if he had slapped her, her face suddenly red with fury. Mary hid her smile with a sip of her own champagne: Lady Margaret was a pompous idiot. Lady Elizabeth Hampton then tried her luck, all smiles and languid stares. His only response was a raised eyebrow, and a gesture to a footman. He put his empty glass on the tray and took another one, not offering anything, which put an end to the unwanted conversation. Mary found it difficult to hide her glee: she and Lady Elizabeth had had an ongoing feud ever since the stunning but rather slow blonde had decided to steal Evelyn Napier's attentions from her back in 1911._

_Lost in her memories and mean, indirect sense of revenge, she had not noticed that a pair of blue eyes was considering her curiously. He had caught her staring, to her great shame. Mary looked away in haste. She did not want to be put in the same disgusting group as Lady Margaret or Lady Elizabeth. When Lady Jane Warwick – her most bitter rival who always did her best to berate her Yorkshire roots, calling her a country girl every time she had had the chance since her debut during the 1914 Season – tried to persuade him to dance with her for the next waltz in the most inelegant manner, barely concealing her interest, Mary walked away. She definitely did not want the gentleman to think she was the same as this awful lot._

_On the terrace, the July air was warm and relaxing. In the gardens below, newly made couples attempted to escape from inquiring eyes and steal a private moment. Mary sighed almost happily. The year before, the very sight, the very idea of what the shadows in the gardens sheltered, would have prompt her to rush back inside. Maybe she was healing after all…At last…_

_An approaching glass of champagne caught her attention, then the man who was holding it._

"_I think I owe you one, Lady Mary," he spoke with the confidence of a ladies' man, not even bothering to introduce himself. "You just saved my life," he explained with an unapologetic smile, his eyes bright with mischief. Behind him, she could discern Lady Jane's jealous expression and, in spite of her indignation – where on earth had he heard her name? – decided to play the game, picking the offered glass._

"_Sir Richard Carlisle," he whispered, still smiling._

"_It is only natural, Sir Richard," she answered aloud. "It is good to see you again after such a long time."_

"_Indeed, it is a pleasure," he replied, seemingly impressed by the way she had kept the ball rolling._

_His smile was intoxicating, contagious even…_

Three years later, in spite of everything that happened in the confines of Downton, Mary discovered that his smile still had the same quality.

However, today, some matters were more important than Richard's smile or charm. She sobered up, building the courage to approach the difficult question.

"So you managed to take Michael home, didn't you?" she inquired as they walked to the terrace.

"Yes, at last," was his short answer, his mood suddenly grave, as well.

Just like when Granny had confronted the absurd rigidity of the Army for poor, dying William's sake, Richard had spent a good deal of the previous day fighting against the military and its organization.

"It must have been quite exhausting," she commented, reminded of Edith's tale of Granny's frustrations and stubbornness. At that time, Mary had been too absorbed by Matthew's ordeal, conveniently forgetting that William was dying because of a foolish and brave show of loyalty to the _heir_.

"Oh, it was nothing more than what a few threats and an exchange of a few pounds can buy…" he forced himself to smile.

"I suppose I do not want to know."

He shook his head. "No, you don't."

Mary let him take her hand in his own as they joined his father and his nephew on the terrace. Mark Carlisle was the perfect representation of what an aging Richard would become. Tall and dignified, he could give lessons of nobility to many so called gentlemen. His hair was white as snow and she could see where Richard got his receding hairline. His piercing blue eyes were bright and almost youthful. Just like his son, his smiles were rare but precious.

_As for Michael…_

* * *

Mark Carlisle considered the couple as they walked on the terrace hand in hand, noticing with pleasure the aunt's absence. In spite of all his prejudice against the aristocracy and his hostility fuelled by the half stories he had managed to gather from his son for the past year, he had to recognize that Mary had the potential of being a remarkable young woman. She was beautiful, obviously, and a brunette – which explained Richard's attraction. She was intelligent, even if she had difficulties to realize there was a world outside Downton. However, she seemed to be a fast learner, which was a good quality.

Four days ago, he had met her for the first time ever and had not been impressed by the fragile, pale thing that appeared to consider her stay in London as an escape. Three days ago, she surprised him by talking back to her Aunt about the valet's ordeal and defending the maid's honor and honesty with passion, which was a good point in her favor. The day before yesterday, she managed to surprise him even more when she bulled her way into Richard's study and called him on his idiotic behavior, which was an excellent point in her favor.

"_I know how frustrated you are but you don't get to talk to me like this," she had protested between clenched teeth, insisting on every word, her whole posture full of aristocratic anger and indignation._

Finally, he had to admit that the girl had some backbone, and he was beginning to understand why Richard was so smitten with her. If anything, the last few days had proven to him that he was not losing his boy to aristocracy because of ambition, and it was all that mattered.

Mark got up to welcome her, hands on her shoulders, gently admonishing her because she kept on calling Mr. Carlisle and decided that a paternal kiss on the cheek was an suitable punishment for her snobbishness. When she bent to give a kiss to Michael in his wheelchair, he could not help to smile approvingly at his anxious son. In spite of an initial repulsion, which you could understand perfectly given the circumstances, she forced her lips into a small, timid smile, devoid of any outward pity.

This was a good thing. Michael did not need pity.

The determined young man who had left New Zealand to study medicine in London was long gone. He was the shell of a man, and it was difficult to imagine that the gaunt face, the dangerously thin upper body, the exhausted eyes once pertained to the same grandchild he had discovered on a September afternoon back in 1913: perfectly combed black hair and olive skin that betrayed his Maori roots on his father's side, broad shoulders, a self-confident, ambitious smile, not that different from Richard's when he was younger…

It was all gone now.

However, today was not the day for regret and tears; those would come soon enough. Today was Michael's last birthday, his twenty-seventh, and the day to create some good memories. As they cheered with glasses of champagne– he would not admit it on his deathbed, but just for this reason, he was glad that his son had become so wealthy – he noticed with satisfaction that Mary seemed to share Richard's and his determination, even if it cost her.

* * *

The scene was quite surrealist. No, describing it as a mirage would a better way to put it. Always the troubadour, his father was regaling Mickey and Mary with the story of a fishing expedition in the Highlands Richard had heard at least a million times. Late April sunlight had finally managed to pierce the heavy clouds present since the morning and enhanced the unreal aspect of the moment. Knowing deep down that all too soon, Mickey would not be able to enjoy the fresh air on the terrace, and would not be able to feel anything but the growing suffocation, had prompted Richard to excuse himself and retrieve his camera.

_Photography existed for these moments._

It had been his conviction ever since he had started working for the press. People had deemed him crazy when he had chosen to be a photographer instead of losing his time in an office. His rivals had smiled when he had decided to use images as whole way of expression, equal to printed words… He waited, like a voyeur, listening to the story, expecting the moment that surely would provoke irrepressible laughter. He waited… And the moment came.

His father animatedly began to describe the _monster_ he had fought decades before near the Loch Lommond – his favorite place for trout and salmon in all Scotland whereas Richard, always the loner, had a strong preference for Skye islands, a rougher place that suited him perfectly. If you believed the story – as he once did when he was a boy listening to his father with his mouth open in anticipation – you would think that the beast had been, at the very least, seven feet long, and Richard still had to catch a salmon longer than four or five feet long – those were hard enough to catch, and gave you a good fight. However, Michael loved the mountain – they had their share of expeditions in the Alps when the boy first arrived to study medicine in London before the war – but, unfortunately, he always had found fishing was a boring activity, with the notable exception of his grandfather's tales. And Mary… The only fishes she had ever come across were probably the carefully prepared ones she used to find in her plate in Downton.

_Just a few seconds more_

Michael's laughter had an almost childlike, crystalline quality and Mary, in spite of all her good breeding and good manners could not hide her wide grin and marveled eyes. Then his father mimicked his plunge into the loch as the _beast _had pulled him further and further from the shore. He related how he had clung to his fishing rod for dear life, how crests had formed before the fastest salmon he had ever come across, until the improbable duo had reached the other side of the loch – some six or seven miles further, mind you. Michael was laughing in earnest now, his head bent, his shoulder shaking for another reason than pain or suffocation for once, his smile contagious. Mary's hands had flown to hide her gaping mouth, but her wide, shiny eyes betrayed her own mirth. And his father… Well, the satisfied, half smile, the mischievous expression underlined by the lines drawn on his face by years of exposition to the elements and the discreet wink he addressed his son revealed he had reached the goal he was aiming for.

_Perfect. Just perfect._


	4. Post war realities : Chaos

So here is the latest chapter. As usual, many thanks for reading and reviewing.

And, of course, all my gratitude to my great beta and pioneer of the R/M fandom, MrsTater. Fics are appearing left and right lately, and it's a nice thing to see!

Disclaimer: I won nothing, bla, bla, bla. I just wish Fellowes had made a better work with the outstanding material he had with the period 1914-1919 (Go and read Ken Follett's _Fall of Giants_, it's a masterpiece.)

**Chapter 3: Chaos**

_London, April 26th, 1919_

There was smoke everywhere. Half-printed papers were scattered on the floor. People were coughing or shouting for help. Others were cursing, trying to stop the machine gone crazy. And, in the middle of this chaos Richard stood, shouting orders to a mechanic next to him, his left hand protectively cradling his right one.

As they had decided the evening before, Mary had stopped by Richard's office to have luncheon. Since neither of them wanted Aunt Rosamund's rather obnoxious presence to disturb the fragile, most recent development of their relationship, they had agreed that Anna could be the perfect chaperon. Indeed, Mark's extraordinary tales had led to more personal ones, much to Richard's discomfort. Finally, both his father and his nephew had retired to get some rest, leaving them alone – some chaperons they were. In the spirit of the day, they had sat a long time, sipping tea and exchanging childhood memories, mocking each other in earnest. He learnt with gleeful interest how she had decided to pack her things and leave the house at the age of five. She laughed at his phobia of spiders and his difficult relationship with horses. Luncheon today was supposed to follow this new trend. Instead of a friendly chatter, all she found was utter chaos.

Even if she had met him only once, Mary managed to recognize Richard's oldest business partner, Paddy McAlister, who was running up the stairs, and called him, anxious to understand what was going on.

"Ah! Here you are," the short, dark-haired Scot greeted her, trying to catch his breath. "I was looking for you. Richard told me you were coming for luncheon…" he explained, shaking her hand and Anna's. More than a associate, he was one of her fiancé's oldest friends as well – they had known each other since they met in Athens back in 1896 while they covered the first Olympic Games for rival Scottish newspapers Richard told her. If anybody knew about Richard's private plans for the day, it was him.

"Mr McAlister, what happened?" she asked, deeply worried. On their first meeting, Paddy's quiet, discreet demeanor had impressed her so much she had wondered how such different men could get along. Now, he was frantic…

"I don't know… The printing press, it just literally went off like a canon… Some people are injured, and a mechanic who tried to stop it got his arm caught in the damn machine."

Once more, Mary looked at scene playing downstairs. Richard was clearly supporting his right hand. How come he was injured as well? Paddy went on with his story, and answered her unasked question.

"Richard and the chief mechanic managed to unstick the bloke, and got burnt as well. We called for an ambulance, but it doesn't look good…"

The rest of Paddy's explanations faded in the background as Mary started to walk down the stairs. The chaos was even more impressing on the ground floor, the smoke suffocating. There were traces of oil on the ground. Or was it blood? On her right, a kid, no older than sixteen, held his injured head in his hands, visibly knocked-out. A cut on his forehead was bleeding. Without thinking, mechanically, she knelt and tried to stop the bleeding with her handkerchief. Behind her, she noticed Anna, who had followed her, doing the same with an older worker.

Her own actions surprised her. The only time she had acted in a similar fashion, it had been at Matthew's bedside. She had rationalized her actions as the positive influence of her love for her cousin, a love that made her a better person. How could she not think like that? Everybody around seemed to think that her caring for Matthew was her redemption. Cousin Isobel. Granny. Papa. Sybil. Even Edith. Yet, this young man was nobody to her, and here she was, tending to his wound, soothing him, leading him to the stairs. Then she noticed another man, in his twenties probably, uninjured but obviously shocked by the accident. She walked to reach him, make him leave the place where fear stuck him so close to the machine.

A few feet on her right, she saw Richard still arguing with the chief mechanic, and a third man she did not know.

"We have to stop the damn thing," he was shouting to cover the noise.

"Richard! We can't without irredeemably breaking the motor. It will take weeks to repair it," the other man protested.

"I don't care! Peter! Break it but stop the damn machine!" Richard ordered his mechanic, ignoring the third man.

"Aye!" The mechanic did not need to be told twice.

"Richard! I'll have to talk to the board!"

"Sir Nicholas? _Bugger off_..."

Mary could not believe what she was hearing. She had never seen Richard so angry. However, she could not delve into this new information for long, since she still had to convince the man to get up and leave the ground floor. He was shaking like a leaf, covering his ears. The sight reminded of what Anna once told her about Lang, the valet who had replaced Bates for a few weeks. Instinctively, she searched for her maid. Surely she would be more competent than Mary was to convince the man. But Anna was nowhere to be seen…

"Mary, what's the matter?" a deep voice startled her. Richard stood behind her, still clutching his right hand.

"He won't move," she commented plainly. She felt useless.

Richard knelt down. "Step aside please."

No sooner she did as told she heard the loud sound of a slap and stared at Richard with horror.

"What the…?"

"Hey, Stevenson! Get a damn grip! Get the fuck up!" Richard barked, ignoring her feeble protestations, focusing his attention on his worker.

The slap had managed to produce the reaction her words of encouragement had not, and Stevenson's arms went limp long enough for Richard to take the left one, indicating Mary to do the same with the right one.

Wordlessly, she followed his silent instructions. Two seconds later, Stevenson was on his feet in spite of his moaning, and they dragged him up the stairs.

* * *

The doctor was tending his right hand, commenting on the seriousness of the burning, telling him how to keep the wound clean… However, Richard was still seething, and was unable to pay attention to the man.

His mind reeled. How could such a bloody accident occur in _his_ building? Even as the physician was talking about burnt flesh and risks of infection, the only thing Richard could think about was the damn printing press. He tried to remember every maintenance chart he had come across in the last months. He attempted to visualize the mere command for repair parts that they had made. He just could not believe such a thing had happened.

On the personal front, he had his plate full, and he really did not need this complication.

On the professional front, it was a nightmare. Valued workers had been injured. One had passed away on the operating table. A relatively new machine was broken. The Unions were going to be on his back come tomorrow… The unrest had been palpable since the end of the war, fuelled by the growing rejection of the war and the news about the Revolution in Russia in 1917 then the spreading of the socialist utopia and the apparitions of _soviets_ in Berlin, Budapest, Glasgow even… Richard always had been able to obtain some form of tacit contract with the Unions: he promised to respect all the social regulations, all the official consigns about security, and in exchange, the guys promised to prefer negotiation to revolutionary strike. Contrary to what most of his board thought, he was not a socialist, far from it. Even when he had been at the lowest of the food chain, he had never been tempted to enlist: he valued his independence too much, or in other, less favorable words, he was too much of an egoist. However, he surely was a pragmatic man, cynical even, and could recognize that workers tended to work harder, to be more efficient, when paid decently for example. This was his definition of _cracking the whip_. It was a contract: he gave good salaries, higher than the norm, he protected his people, their health, and in exchange, he expected them to give the better of themselves. It was quite simple actually.

And the accident today showed that, for the first time since he had reached such a position of power, he had not respected his part of the bargain, and, given the context, a strike was more than a possibility.

_Damn!_

It drove him mad.

Finally, the doctor had finished transforming his hand into a mummified one, and handed him his prescription, advising him one more time to get some rest…

Mechanically, Richard thanked the physician, and left the room as if the Devil himself was on his tracks. He wanted nothing more than getting out of the damn hospital. However, the sight he found in the lobby put an end to his escape.

Mary was still there, waiting for him, even if he had told her to go back to her aunt's townhouse. She was pale, visibly shocked. Hell, who wouldn't be after witnessing the aftermath of the accident? But she still managed to put on a brave front.

_Stubborn girl_

As soon as he appeared in the lobby, she got up.

"Aunt Rosamund's car is waiting outside. I told Paddy and your father I would bring you back home," she announced, her tone leaving no place for negotiation. Then, she inquired more softly: "Does it hurt?"

"Not that much," he heard himself lie unconvincingly, even to his own ears, as he followed Mary outside.

Silently, they crossed the small park where the convalescents could spend an hour or two in the afternoon. In the early hours of the evening, it was naturally deserted. The somewhat familiar atmosphere evoked a precious memory. _Strong, silent girl indeed._

_Cliveden, July 13th, 1916_

_Richard Carlisle was bored if he ever was. He had answered favorably to the invitation – this was what people in his position did, apparently – but it did not mean he had to enjoy the damn circus… Some ladies believed they could secure his interest, hand and money with their smile and good manners. He took a perverse satisfaction to shoot down their futile hopes. Right now, he was perfectly content with his own company: he recently had put an end of his volatile relationship with Isabel Cardenas, a Mexican painter exiled in Europe since the start of the Revolution in 1911. She was a passionate woman in bed to say the least and a political creature as well who had used his contacts in London to obtain funding for the cause. They had shared a bed on a more or less regular basis for almost three years, depending on his work schedule and rare escapades, depending on her consumption of opium and frequent escapades. It had been good while it had lasted, but recently opium induced dreams had become much more than a source of inspiration: they now were her only lover. He had offered her to help her, get her in a discreet clinic outside London._

_Once._

_Twice._

_He had not offered a third time. Instead, he collected his things, gave her key back and did not turn back. He took another fortifying sip of his champagne as he watched Lady Jane Warwick approaching him with a self-confident smile, much to his horror. The damn woman never gave up, didn't she? Desperate for some mean of escape, anything, he tried to see where the pretty brunette who had caught his attention earlier was._

_Damn, she was nowhere to be seen. What was her name? He had heard someone talking about a certain Lady Mary from Yorkshire. But he did not know her full name. On the other hand, suffering another conversation with Lady Jane was absolutely out of the question…Richard tried his luck, it was something he was quite good at, after all._

_And it worked._

_Lady Mary was even more a player than what he felt instinctively when he had caught her observing with glee while he discouraged Lady Margaret and Lady Elizabeth in a more or less polite manner._

_She was beautiful. And her sense of irony was perfect._

Bad idea, Richard.

_They strolled along the garden paths, and contained their common laughter with much difficulty when they glimpsed Lady Jane's chaperone – an aunt of hers – in a rather compromising situation. They were still giggling as they found a bench in a quiet place._

Very bad idea.

_She was still smiling when he kissed her._

Three years later, in the middle of chaos and noise and smoke, he found the answer he had waited for so long, the confirmation that this evening in Cliveden, that their immediate connection was not a figment of his imagination after all.

Once again in the middle of a garden, he kissed her.

Contrary to their previous encounter, her response was anything but shy as she wrapped her arms around his neck and teased his own lips apart.

* * *

_London, April 28th, 1919_

Never in her entire life had Mary wanted to hurt someone. Actually physically hurt someone. Never.

At the hospital, the doctor had ordered _at least_ a whole week of rest. If it was not possible, he had advised Richard to use his right hand with parsimony for a few days: the burn needed serious tending. Yet, here he was, less than two days after the accident, fully dressed, in his office, signing whatever documents his disapproving but obedient secretary was giving him. His grimace betrayed his pain each time he took his fountain pen, but he went on nonetheless.

_Idiot._

Paddy McAllister had called her this morning at Aunt Rosamund to tell her that _the boss_ was back at the office in spite of the doctor's orders, and was a walking nightmare, implying _she_ needed to do something. So, not listening to her aunt's protestations and general disapproval, not even listening to her own self-doubt, Mary had finished her breakfast, got ready and headed to Richard's office.

Still fuming, she nonetheless waited for the secretary to walk out the office. The poor girl seemed to have suffered a storm, if her paleness and tight shut mouth were any indication. She even might have triggered said storm by suggesting to her employer he should be home, resting: in spite of her apparent submission, her eyes were clearly disapproving, and worried. Mary headed inside the office, not bothering with any kind of announcement.

"What the hell are you doing here?" was his sweet greeting.

Well, she could play this game, too.

"And a good morning to you, Richard," was her icy answer. "I did not realize that _a week of rest_ was synonymous of _back at the office the very next day_. But I guess _my lot_ have a poor understanding of these London subtleties…"

_Idiot._

"It is none of your business, Mary" he growled.

_Even better._

He tried to get back to work as if to make his point even clearer. The grimace he let out while grabbing his pen ruined his effort, nonetheless.

Mary walked further in the office, and sat down in the very same chair on which she had sat the year before when she had come to confess and seek his help. She had felt so powerless and ashamed that day; the mere idea of running to Richard to cover her scandal had been unbearable. So, she had done the only thing she could think of to keep a last shred of dignity: she had treated this like a transaction. Sir Richard Carlisle was a businessman, he sold newspapers and scandals as a way of living; he would not be feel insulted by such a proposition, wouldn't he?

She had been very wrong, as the barely concealed fury in his eyes and clenched jaw had proved it when he had taken her hand with an awkward smile. _This_ had been the moment when their relationship began to get sourer and sourer, each one of them seemingly being anxious to surpass the other in their foul behavior.

_Idiots, both of them._

Mary prudently considered her next move. She just could not grab Richard by the collar and drag him home in the most unladylike manner, even if her fingers actually were itching to do so. He apparently decided to ignore her, the way he did with her father during breakfast in Downton – which was quite vexing – and had resumed whatever needed to be done. Ignoring and lashing out were his best weapons when hurt, physically and morally, she slowly was beginning to understand. She clearly did not want to provoke him further: it would be most unproductive and contrary to her ultimate goal, bring him back home. Curiously, still trying to define her strategy, she caught a glimpse of the documents he was working on with a furious dedication.

_Bills for pieces: bolts, belts and valves_

_Maintenance reports and alerts_

_Personal records_

Richard Carlisle just did not know how to give up, unlike some people she knew…

He clenched his teeth, went on fighting and finally exploded in the most irrational manner, she had been a direct witness to that, yet she had needed a conversation with Michael to connect the dots.

_Captain Michael R. Haskell, injured by mustard gas on October, 15th 1918 on the Turkish front, brought back to a military hospital in London on November, 9th._

"Richard, stop it," she uttered suddenly in a soft voice. "Those damn papers will still be there next week and you need to rest, clear your head, tend to your hands." She awfully sounded like a wife…

"Still there? I thought…" he snapped back angrily.

"Yes, I am still there. What are you going to do about this? Drag me out of your office? Threaten me with ruin and disgrace?" she replied, aiming at his throat.

This last come back had the merit to catch his attention fully. He now considered her with incredulous eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about, Mary?"

* * *

At first, Richard honestly did not know what she was alluding to.

Then, slow realization dawned on him. He knew perfectly well what she was talking about: his damn evening before the armistice. During his stay in Downton, he had received some news from an officer he paid regularly to keep tracks on his nephew's location: Michael finally had been brought back from the front and was in a military hospital in London. On November 10th, he had traveled from and back Downton within the day to visit the boy at last. Between the idiosyncrasies of the military administration and the hour he had spent in the toilets emptying his stomach content – Michael was in a terrible state – he had missed the last train to Yorkshire. Fortunately, Lavinia Swire had made her decision at last to go back to Matthew and he had driven her car back to Downton, not uttering a word to the girl during the entire journey.

He was angry.

Angry beyond words.

At everything and everybody. The government. The military. This stupid, endless, suicidal war.

When Mary had called him on his role in Lavinia's return – as if the girl could not decide something on her own, his only role in all of this had been preparing the ground for her return on the Downton front – keeping on moaning on poor Matthew, he had lost it.

The worst of it was that he did not remember what he had said then very clearly. All he knew was that he had been perfectly awful.

_Unforgivable_

His pen and papers were forgotten. "Mary… I'm so sorry," he began then stopped abruptly, not knowing how to go on. What could he say?

_I'm sorry I took my anger out on you…_

_That's the way I am when I'm angry…_

_I was hurting and I was jealous of the attention you gave Matthew…_

_Seeing the bastard alive and well but whining about his damn legs and whining some more was insufferable, especially after seeing my nephew intoxicated, the skin on his face and torso burnt by the mustard gas …_

All of these were valid explanations, but did not work exactly as valid apologies.

"I'm sorry," he repeated simply, hoping against reason it would be sufficient.

"If only you had spoken about it," she accused him softly, not looking at him.

That was unexpected.

"Me? Choosing to share a burden when I can perfectly crumble on my own?" he took the easy way out of irony and self-deprecation.

A pair of brown eyes stared at him, not amused at all.

"You did not seem that interested at the time." It was his turn of accusing in a low voice, his eyes finding a discreet ink stain fascinating.

"I know, I'm sorry, too."

More and more unexpected. Maybe they had a chance after all.

"Richard? Go home, you look like hell," she insisted.

_Strong and stubborn girl._

Always trust Lady Mary Crawley to go back to her main preoccupation. It unnerved him, not that long ago. However, this annoying tendency was rather nice when you were the object of it.

_Matthew Crawley was an idiot._

_Fortunately._

Richard put some order to the papers he was consulting. The public flaying of Sir Nicholas Stanton could wait a few days.

"I believe I owe you a luncheon," he commented as he reached for his hat and cigarettes.


	5. Post war realities : Anguish

****So here's a new chapter of The healing process. As usual, thanks for reading and reviewing, and being patient. The story is getting a bit darker for a few chapter, and will tackle some serious topics inspired by the great novel Roger Martin du Gard, Les Thibault.

A special thank you to MrsTater, and another one for all the fellow R/M writers.

**Chapter four : Anguish **

_Downton, May 12th, 1919_

Mary idly wondered when she had begun to dislike the place her father had elected to place the telephone before the war. The chair was not the most comfortable in the house and there always was somebody strolling along the corridor… As a result, having a private, meaningful conversation on the phone proved to be quite a difficult task. Until recently, Mary simply did not care and often used the excuse of her mother or her sister walking by to end a call to Richard in London. Now, she resented each intrusion deeply. For the third time, she addressed a hard look to the overly curious maid – Susan or Helen, she did not know – who took her sweet time to finish polishing the silver chandeliers in the saloon.

"So I may be able to get rid of Sir Nicholas and his clique in one stroke_,_" the deep voice commented and she could visualize the hardness in his jaw and eyes.

"If I understand, you are willing to give his head to the Unions on a silver plate. I thought capitalists like you did not get along with the Unions…" Mary had a difficult time grasping the complexities of Richard's political allegiances.

"He is an idiot who disobeyed a direct order. I told him not to buy the damn bolts on the English market and go to Sweden instead to obtain better steel. He took me for a fool, went behind my back telling people I ate out of the communists' hand and used this as a pretext to attempt a coup. He failed and cost me a whole printing press. Sir Nicholas won't be missed."

The memory of the accident was still fresh if his cold, angry tone was any indication. In the course of her latest stay in London, Mary had discovered that, in his professional environment, Richard was an autocrat as much as a perfectionist. He needed to know and control everything from the bolts in his machines to the distribution of his papers because he needed things to be right. The accident was a failure he just could not put behind. In spite of the drama she had been sucked into, she was grateful to have been privy to this unknown side of Richard's personality, and she felt she could understand him a little better.

_She was beginning to read between the lines._

Ten days or so in London and as many visits were not sufficient to pretend she _knew _him - far from it; but she now was able to discern when his anger was genuine and when it was a façade.

"Richard darling," she let escape an unexpected form of endearment. "When did you last sleep?" she inquired, trying to hide her concern - Richard Carlisle hated concern – at the exhaustion she could hear in his voice in spite of his efforts.

Silence

A sigh

Those were bad signs.

"You begin to sound awfully like a wife, you know that?" he joked weakly.

Another bad sign.

"Richard," she insisted in a soft voice after having chased her mother away with a dark stare. "How bad is it?" She did not dare ask a more precise question.

"The doctor gave him ten days, at most…" came the chilling answer.

_His voice was quivering._

* * *

Since the very first day of her marriage, Cora had learnt the value of silence and patience. Her mother-in-law was a terrible force to contend with who could not stand contradiction. As much as she loved Robert, she had to admit he had inherited his mother's taste for authority without her ability to adapt to a difficult situation: his recent outburst at Sybil's engagement to the _chauffeur_ was a proof of that. In spite of all their differences, her daughters were true Crawleys at the core as well: stubborn, proud and prompt to anger. When contradicted, Sybil would protest against the injustice, Mary would lash out with icy, hurtful words while Edith would retreat further into her hard shell. To the outsider's eye, each girl reacted very differently, but, as their mother, Cora knew better… At the root of these behaviors was the same, inherited inability to cope with contradiction, which always was perceived as a threat to their identity.

_Typical Crawleys…_

Years of marriage and maternity had taught her that head on confrontation was utterly useless when the Crawleys – her husband and her daughters, without speaking of her mother-in-law – felt threatened, criticized or humiliated. Ever "the American" – they always seemed to remember and resent Cora for her humbler roots in these moments – she had mastered the art of quiet patience and sweet manipulation. So, here she was carefully observing her eldest daughter as she was choosing the outfits she wanted to wear in London in a calm, deliberate fashion. Apparently, Mary was just packing as she had done so many times since she had been old enough to travel to London and visit her aunt on her own. However, for many reasons, the scene worried her in a way Sybil's announcement of her rather unusual and unexpected engagement never truly did. For the first time, Cora feared she was losing one of her daughters, and the tension in Mary's jaw as she picked a black vest and skirt made her wary to broach the subject.

"Mary?" she tried nonetheless. She had to try. "Do you think it's really wise to go back to London so soon? Sir Richard's going to think you can't live without him anymore." She knew perfectly well Mary was engaged to the publisher, and had been for months. The couple's relationship had been strained more often than not, but Richard did provide an undeniable level of protection, which was sadly necessary given Mary's history. And he was willing to marry her, whatever his reasons were, and Matthew was not. However, nobody could deny that poor Lavinia's death had changed everything. As a consequence, encouraging the man further had become a bad idea, in Cora's opinion, even more so when the hope of a possible reconciliation between Mary and Matthew had appeared again. Of course, there still was the Pamuk problem, indelible… That was why she had supported Mary's engagement to Sir Richard in the first place. But, now that Matthew was free again… A blind man would have noticed her eldest daughter still cared deeply for her cousin; and what Cora had heard from O'Brien made her quite hesitant about the newspapers man. Matthew was the solution, not Sir Richard.

"I am not going back to throw myself at Richard," her daughter answered back coldly, as she gestured towards the black outfit she had selected. "I am going back to assist him at his nephew's bedside and deathbed, I already told you and Papa during luncheon."

"But why?" Cora could not help herself to inquire, her round, incredulous eyes wide open. "You are needed in Downton as well…" she evoked vaguely. She did not dare pronounce the name of Matthew, for she feared to provoke a similar reaction to the one Robert had provoked during luncheon.

"And I am needed in London," Mary simply stated as handed two pairs of shoes to Anna.

"It is not your family!" Cora exclaimed.

"Well, technically, you are quite right. Until the wedding, the Carlisles are not legally my family, yet," her daughter snapped, her back to Cora. "You, Granny and Papa had gone out of your way to remind Richard of this very fact since his very first visit here." She selected a veil and a hat, both convenient for a funeral. "Mind you, I am not throwing the first stone, since that suited me at the time…"

_At the time?_

"Our whole family was so intent on focusing on our own perception of tragedy and, at the same time, reminding Richard he was a mere, barely welcome stranger that I let him shoulder a weight he should have never dealt with on his own. _Never_." Her daughter's posture was tense as she expressed her rather unexpected guilt. "Michael is Richard's nephew. It is close enough to me, I would say." Mary's tone did not leave room for discussion. She had made up her mind.

Cora was at a loss. First Sybil, then Mary. What was happening to her daughters? Why would they want to leave Downton behind? Sybil, she could explain, even if she had a difficult time to understand. She was the youngest, she had made profit of the lesser expectations that weighed on her. She always had been the rebel, the American daughter.

Mary on the other hand… Her whole life had revolved around Downton ever since she had been old enough to understand what was at stake. And she had loved Matthew. So why?

Cora sighed, and took the nearest chair.

"I just hope you don't feel pressured to do this in any way," she said prudently, hoping Mary would catch her meaning.

This caught her daughter's full attention at last: Mary stopped her packing to consider her with inquisitive eyes.

Cora replied with a pointed stare of her own, her eyes wide, her mouth tight shut in thin smile.

"There are no pressures anymore, Mama," she answered truthfully at last. "Not on Richard's part. Not on my part."

_There are no pressures anymore…_

It sounded like Mary and her fiancé were making a fresh start, and she could not do anything about it.

Disappointed by this latest development, but slightly reassured nonetheless, Cora got up, gave her daughter a kiss and left her to her packing.

* * *

When Mary had boarded the train to London only two weeks before, she had done so to seek refuge from the ghosts that kept on plaguing her in Downton.

Lavinia

Matthew

Pamuk

She had accepted Richard's idea like a drowning man clung to any buoy a generous soul would send his way. And she was glad she had accepted his helping hand, because in the course of a few days far from the uncontrolled melodrama and the familial plotting in Downton, they had managed to remember their initial, immediate complicity during that ball at Cliveden. Those new foundations were fragile at best, but they existed, and this was what mattered most. This what imported most because Mary had discovered one more little but essential thing during these ten days.

_She wanted to be happy, in spite of the ghosts, in spite of the curse. _

If Matthew and Downton could not give that, then she would find it elsewhere. This was very selfish, and her father's disappointed stare when she had announced she wanted to board the four o'clock train to London, condemned her betrayal. This was very self-centered, and her mother's lecture about her behavior which jeopardized everything when, at long last, there was a chance of setting everything right, confirmed her family's opinion about the new course she unexpectedly had chosen for her life.

But it was liberating and she owed it to these ten days in London.

More precisely, she owed it to a dying man.

_London, April 30th, 1919_

_Hesitantly, Mary followed the butler's indications and crossed the dining room to the terrace where Michael was enjoying the sunny afternoon. She quite did not know what to do: Richard had invited her for tea this afternoon, but he was nowhere to be seen. Moreover, his father had gone back to his beloved Edinburgh. As a result, until her fiancé's return, she was alone with his nephew. It was unsettling, unnerving even. It was not she did not appreciate the young man, far from it. They had shared some good moments, laughing like children at Mark's fishing tales. However, the very sight of his gaunt face and sickly emaciated body made her uncomfortable. Downton had been a recovery house for the greater part of a year but she had managed to protect herself from the scars and missing hands or legs. With the exception of Matthew's injury, she barely had appeared at Dr Clarkson's clinic, and she sheltered herself against the sight of the critically injured soldiers. Too preoccupied with Matthew's condition, she had not witnessed William's last moments. In the end, even her cousin's injury had proved rather harmless the day he stood up again, and decided to marry Lavinia. All in all, four years of war had gone and passed, and she had not been confronted with its ugly, implacable reality until the day she had met Michael. Seeing a man her age in such a state frightened her, it was as simple as that. _

_The fact he could not walk by himself anymore and was reduced to a wheelchair – until the end – added to her uneasiness, for it awakened unwanted memories, the very ones she tried to escape from in London. As she stepped across the threshold, she noticed that he was absorbed in the contemplation of the garden. She almost retreated back in the townhouse: caring after Matthew after in injury had taught her to respect the soldier melancholy. However, before turning back, she caught a glimpse of the bottle of whiskey on the table next to him. For a second, Mary was appalled, and irrationally scared, before she heard Michael's whispered greeting – talking aloud was too much an effort._

"_Good afternoon, Mary. Why don't you come and enjoy the sun with me? Uncle Richard is coming back soon."_

"_Good afternoon, Michael," she answered automatically. She was surprised by the normalcy of the greeting, which contradicted the presence of the half empty bottle by his side. She did not understand and, in spite of her natural reserve, she inquired: "Should you be…?"_

"_Give me break, I'm dying," he interrupted good-naturedly, his lips forming a half-smile. "And I wanted to taste this whiskey one more time…"_

_To demonstrate his point, he poured another glass and handed it to her._

"_You can't find a better whiskey, and Uncle Richard managed to obtain a whole crate of it."_

"_I'm afraid I never tasted any whiskey, it would be a waste," she protested feebly, refusing the handed glass. This was not happening._

"_Never? What a pity! That's one more reason to have a taste," he insisted and presented the glass one more time. "It won't kill you…"_

_Speechless at this last come back, Mary obeyed. She could not say if it was good or not, because the only sensations she felt were the burning in her throat and the tears in her eyes. God, it was strong… She now understood why it was considered particularly ill-bred for a lady to drink such poison: she almost spat it out. _

_Michael was grinning._

"_How can you drink this?" she asked indignantly, not daring to finish her thought._

"_In my state?" he concluded for her. "I enjoy this whiskey because of my state. I'm a doctor, Mary, and I know perfectly well that very soon, I won't even be able to get out from my damn room." He reclaimed the glass she had put back on the table. "Until then, I want to take all the joys this life still can offer me."_

_Michael Haskell was a very different patient from her cousin; Mary found herself thinking as she sat on the chair next to him. Easy silence settled between them until he spoke again in his customary ushered voice._

"_At the very least, I would have seen the end of this damn slaughter. When I got injured, I was afraid I would not be able to witness this."_

_This was definitely an unfamiliar territory. At home, nobody talked about the war this way. Very few talked about it, actually, and she had learnt to respect this silence._

"_Do I surprise you?" he wondered. He had felt her discomfort. "Well, I'm not a hero like your cousin or your footman. I did not rush to enlist in 1914, hoped against reason that the draft would forget me while I was taking my last exams to become a doctor. Unfortunately, they remembered I existed in September 1916. Too bad."_

_Mary knew she should answer something, anything… But she had been so used to value the aristocratic form of heroism her family defended, that Matthew incarnated, that she could not find the words. _

"_Why did you fight then?" she asked nonetheless, her own voice barely audible._

"_To be true, I didn't fight. I was one of the butchers who patched the soldiers up before sending them back to the slaughterhouse…"_

"_And you loathed it," she continued for him._

"_Oh, yes, I loathed it, every minute of it. But I did it nonetheless, and betrayed each one of my convictions in the process." _

_An insistent coughing stopped him for a few moments. Instinctively, Mary's hand went to his back, beginning a soothing motion. After a while, he spoke again, his voice barely a whisper._

"_You know, I was in Paris in July 1914, on a holiday. The atmosphere back then was electric. The patriots were demonstrating in the streets with their tricolor flags, singing the Marseillaise and all; and the Internationale and its red flags organized demonstrations a few streets further. I screamed and protested with the second ones. Jaurès was arguing till his face became blue at the Assemblée. It was spectacular, and we had hopes it would be another Agadir, a big scare, nothing more. Then Jaurès got killed, and we realized that the number of those who wanted to fight was much, much more important than the number of those who wanted peace."_

_He stopped again, out of breath._

"_What about you?" he finally asked. "Where were you during this beautiful summer of 1914?"_

_Mary honestly did not know how to answer without sounding like a fool. Michael had seen the war coming, had been conscious of this threat, had protested against it, whereas she had been totally oblivious to the world outside Downton, outside her rather pitiful love life. The way Matthew had broken up their burgeoning relationship had hurt her so much she had not realized England was at war for a good week. How could she tell him that?_

"_In a pretty ridiculous place, I am afraid," she confessed him simply, hoping she did not sound too foolish._

"_Humor me," he insisted._

_There was no way she could escape this._

"_Well, I don't know what Richard told you, but I almost was engaged to the heir of the title, my Cousin Matthew. He proposed me in the course of Spring of the same year, and was waiting for my answer to his proposal. However, I was hesitating, then my mother fell pregnant…" It was ridiculous. Positively ridiculous. Why was she telling him this?_

"_You quite enjoy making your suitors wait for your answer, don't you?" His remark hurt but his smile reduced the sting of his words._

"_It's just…" she stopped dead on her tracks. She almost told him about Pamuk. What was wrong with her? It could not be the whiskey, she had barely swallowed anything…_

"_It's just?" he parroted, clearly coercing her into continuing her story. When she did not talk, he went on, taking her hand: "Don't feel ridiculous. It's nice to see that some people were able to live their life normally until the very last moment. And your secrets are safe with me, you know. I'm…"_

_She cut him with a wave of her hand. She did not want hear the words spoken so casually, not when she just had discovered what could have been if only she had accepted Richard's proposal earlier. If she had accepted, Michael and she would be family now, and not two strangers trying to make friend in the last minute. If she had accepted…_

"_Mary? I'd really like to hear the end of your story." _

"_We're family" was the hidden meaning of his words._

_So she told him, everything._

_And he laughed. And laughed again between two fits of couching. And laughed some more, tears forming in his eyes._

_After a while, she was laughing too._

_It was ridiculous._

This conversation had given Mary some perspective, on her choices, on her life. For the first time in almost seven years, she felt liberated. The weight of her family's expectations, of her own ambitions had disappeared suddenly. Downton was not the center of her world anymore, and was back to its rightful place: an oblivious bubble in the periphery of the world.

She was beginning to consider the world in another light, and leaving this bubble to rush back to Michael's bedside in London was the natural, logical consequence.

* * *

For once, the train from Yorkshire was on time as Richard was surprised to notice when he stepped into the main hall of King's Cross. The station hummed with its usual activity. Letting their maids struggle with the indecent amount of luggage, ladies strolled leisurely to the luxury train that would take them to Calais and the recently resurrected Orient-Express via Dover and a short crossing by boat. Exhausted office clerks waited for their more humble train back home, reading one of _his _papers and commenting the latest sport results. Working class women still in mourning hasted to their own train, ignoring their stumbling children's protests against the fast pace. Normal life had reclaimed its place at last, one would be tempted to think. However, the scars were still there, deep and barely healed, Richard mused as his steps lead him to the platform where Mary was waiting for him.

_Too many women in black_

_Too many limping, broken men_

_Too many hollow, reddened eyes_

And for all his money and successes, he just was one of them. Nothing more. For the first time in years, he felt powerless. Utterly powerless. His fortune and his threats had brought Michael back home, but all his power stopped there as he stood on the side in his own home, unable to do anything but watch the boy's agony.

Richard hated that feeling.

Finding the evidence to determine Sir Nicholas' responsibility in the accident and getting his head had been a distraction efficient enough while the chase had lasted. But everything would be over after the board meeting on the next day. He had to accept the evidence: problems at work could not shelter him anymore from the more personal, hurtful ones… The determination he had mobilized to find out the truth had kept unwanted memories and feelings at bay for some time. Without this rage, there was nothing to protect him from the emotional onslaught.

_He was losing control and he hated it._

This very morning, he almost had punched the doctor in the face when the man coldly had declared the kidney failure that afflicted Michael now was a predictable outcome of the quantity of morphine they had given him to alleviate the pain. The poor man was only doing his job, his weary eyes telling the stories of the too numerous cases he had come across the past few years. Dr Sowerby had lost the ability to care and mechanically stated the now possible outcomes: acute intoxication and terrible pain associated with the kidney failure, abscess to the lung and subsequent long suffocation, welcomed heart failure… But Michael was his only nephew, his sister's blood, the closest he ever had to a son since the day he held the toddler in his arms the first time he had visited Lucy in New Zealand. Not bothering to hear the end of the list of outcomes or to thank the doctor for his work, Richard had stormed out of the room before he hurt the man. His hands were still shaking when he had made his customary, soothing, morning call to Mary. Worse, he had been unable to hide his distress, much to his shame…

As soon as he glimpsed her standing under the light of one of the numerous night bulbs that adorned the brick pillars on the platforms, his shame dissolved, leaving only relief. Deep relief. He stopped his progression to a beat, taking in the reassuring scene in front of him. Calm and composed as usual, beautiful in the simple, navy blue ensemble he did not know, Mary was quietly chatting with Anna. She might have seen him in her peripheral vision since she suddenly turned to face him. Her eyes betrayed her tiredness and her worry – and he cringed at the idea he was the cause of it – but her timid smile was warm and reassuring. Unable to restrain himself anymore, Richard closed the distance and engulfed her in a tight, shaky embrace.

"Thank you," he whispered, his face buried in the curve of her neck.


	6. Post war realities : Pain

So here's chapter five. Two more chapters, and this story arc will be over (and the fic will go on hyatus for a little while).

As usual, a big thank you for reading and commenting, and a special thanks for my beta MrsTater.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything...

**Chapter five: Pain**_  
_

_London, May 13th, 1919_

The second week of May had been unusually warm in London, and Mary could not help but find some comfort in the relaxing atmosphere of the summer-like evening. It was the hour when it became almost impossible to discern forms from shadows. The garden, which was quite small even by London standards and rather unkempt as the owner liked it, was morphing slowly in some form of mysterious, slightly fearsome territory. The reunion of the board had lasted longer than expected and Richard was not home yet, and Michael was suffocating once again. The ever-present nurse had called the doctor who seemed at loss as to what to do to relieve his patient's agony.

For the hundredth time in the course of the day, Mary questioned the wisdom of her presence here. Her hesitation had nothing to do with her father's outrage when she had announced she was coming back to London to help Richard with his dying nephew. He had protested vehemently about her endangered reputation – if he only _knew_ – and she had replied coolly, arguing that her fiancé had rushed to Downton the minute he had heard about the Spanish flu, that her coming to London was the only natural, decent thing to do. The Earl of Grantham could not possibly let a _nouveau riche_ like Richard Carlisle give him lessons of decency, and he had let her go reluctantly. No, right now, she could not care less about her reputation. However, without Richard present, it was much more difficult than she ever had thought. She simply feared she could not do it.

"My Lady?" a hesitant voice interrupted her musings. "Dr. Sowerby wishes to talk to you."

Surprised by this unexpected request, Mary considered the butler a long moment. Wallace was younger than her dear Carson and did not possess the same natural combination of deference and authority as the butler of Downton. However, he seemed a decent enough man, and loyal to Richard to a fault. He had lost his hair prematurely – all he had left was a short-cropped, red-haired crown – and wore a pair of rounded glasses that gave him the air of a school teacher. From five years of service in the British Army in India, he had conserved a rather martial posture juxtaposed with the ability to distinguish an authentic piece of Indian art from a fraud with no more than a glimpse.

"I will go up in a moment," she answered almost automatically, before her self-doubt expressed itself once again. "However, I am not sure what I can do. Sir Richard is not here and…"

"My Lady, if Sir Richard was here, I would not be bothering you," he interrupted – Carson never would have done that – before adding, gravely but not unkindly, "It is not a decision either Mrs. Evans or myself can take, unfortunately. It is a family matter."

_A family matter…_ The urge to flee, call a cab and rush to the refuge of her Aunt Rosamund's townhouse, was almost irrepressible. She just could not do what was required of Michael's next-of-kin. Her panic must have been evident on her face, in spite of the growing darkness, because Wallace's voice disturbed the evening silence one more time:

"I should not tell you this, my Lady, but Doctor Sowerby already has reached the maximum dosage of morphine and does not wish the give another dose without the family's permission…" The discreet disgust in his voice – another difference – was enough to convey the rest of his thoughts: the physician was afraid of killing a dying man.

How on earth could the man – a friend, a _mentor_, she had been told – accept the idea of letting Michael suffer?

Cold anger replaced self-doubt all of a sudden. "How is Michael?" Mary enquired, trembling as if she was talking about family indeed.

"Bad."

"Thank you, Wallace. I will talk to Dr. Sowerby at once."

* * *

Exhausted as he was by a never ending meeting, Richard was almost hesitant to push open the door of his own house, afraid of the news that could wait for him inside. The board meeting, for all its inconvenience, had had a quite satisfying conclusion – Sir Nicholas' definitive and irrevocable dismissal. At home, nothing satisfying could be expected.

_On the contrary._

As he stepped into the foyer, the first thing he noticed was Wallace's absence. His butler possessed an uncanny ability to anticipate his employer's arrival, whether Richard chose to walk back home after a good, fulfilling day at work, to take the metropolitan when he wanted to take his readership's pulse, or to call for his chauffeur if he needed to dress for a business dinner. Most likely, Wallace had managed to get reliable informants in order to discretely organize the household's routine around Richard's schedule and mood, like the good former officer he once had been. The butler enjoyed a work well done, and could be almost as ruthless as his boss to achieve this superior goal. And he had been the first butler to last more than a few months, having been able to satisfy Richard's perfectionism, and not to be eaten alive by the terrorizing housekeeper, Mrs. Evans, which was not a small feat. The man usually worked like clockwork, and his absence was unsettling.

_Something was wrong._

Not bothering to wait for a footman to come and retrieve his things, he abandoned his hat and briefcase on the Anglo-Indian table that adorned the lobby, and hastily climbed the stairs, shrugging out of his jacket and loosening the knot of his tie. When he reached the first floor, he stopped dead on his tracks, paralyzed by the cruel reflection he caught in the mirror the architect had used to lighten the staircase – dark circles under his tired eyes, wrinkles that made him look ten years older, shaky hands – and , above all, by the conversation that filtered to him from further down the corridor.

"I'm sorry, my Lady, but, as I explained earlier, I simply cannot increase the dosage any more, the risk is too high…" Dr Sowerby's voice was defeated and stubborn at the same time. "You must understand that his kidneys won't stand it."

"All I understand is that this man is suffering, and needs to be relieved." Mary's tone sharp as ever, vehement, almost. For the hundredth time since he had welcomed her at the station the previous evening, Richard was glad she had decided to come back to London, good manners and reputation be damned.

However, her determination was opposed to a wall of deep rooted convictions.

Dr Sowerby was not a bad doctor; on the contrary, he was an excellent physician, his colleagues lauded him for his groundbreaking work on the effects of gas on pulmonary infections: Michael himself admired the physician before the war in his medical school days, and during the conflict when he had asked his uncle to send his mentor's latest papers to the Turkish front.

Sowerby was the best, but, emotionally, he was a broken man who had lost too many promising students to count, and had given his two sons to the glory of King and Country.

The competence was still there, but gone was the bedside manner that distinguished him from his pedantic colleagues.

All he had left was his pride as a physician and his damn oath.

_Do no harm._

"My Lady, I've known this lad for much longer than you have, and I care for him very much." His voice was trembling. "There's nothing more I can do but let nature take its due course. And pray the end will come soon.

Richard snorted. As if prayers were of any use. Deciding he was in no state to deal with Sowerby's philosophy, he strode straight to Michael's room, where the nurse and Anna, always a trooper, he had noticed, stood by his bedside, trying to soothe the pain that caused a now permanent moaning.

The sight was dreadful, and the acrid smell of sweat, bodily fluids and medication was awful, almost nauseating. Unconsciously, Richard noted that he would have the room remade after this ordeal; or have it locked up. With slow, measured steps, he went to sit on the bed and stroke Michael's damp hair.

The lad barely acknowledged the gesture, his eyes almost crackling open before shutting again when another spasm of pain hit him.

"There's absolutely nothing we can do?" he whispered absently, more to himself than anybody in the room.

Well, there was something, but just thinking about it frightened him.

A tentative hand rested on his shoulder, offering silent comfort. He had not noticed that Mary and Sowerby were back in the room.

"Richard, I'm sorry, but I reached my limit," the physician declared, utterly defeated.

A deep, uneasy silence settled in the room, only disturbed by the dying young man's moans and whimpers.

Mary's hand did not leave his shoulder, and accentuated its gentle pressure. God, she was strong. She should not be here, not without being married, not so soon after the Spanish flu epidemic that had inflicted Downton, not after having witnessed Lavinia's agony… Yet, the selfish part of him, the hurting part of him did not want her anywhere but by his side.

He needed her.

Horribly.

"How about a bath?" Anna's voice resounded unexpectedly.

Richard turned around brusquely to consider the young woman. The circles under her eyes were the testimony of her sleepless nights over her husband's predicament, but her posture, the calmness of her face and the firm set of her jaw revealed her solid nature. She was a precious woman in a moment of crisis. Sowerby considered her seriously, stroking his bearded chin pensively.

"I mean, I remember that was what the doctor back home had advised when my grandpa took a turn for the worse," she explained, staring straight at her mistress, suddenly self-conscious. In spite of all her qualities, she still was a servant, and such an outburst would have been reprimanded by Carson without a doubt.

However, at this very moment, Richard did not care if Anna spoke out of turn or gave unsolicited advice. A bath. Hot water. It made sense. Slowly, the same realization dawned on all the faces in the room.

Richard turned to Mary, taking her hand in his bigger one, and squeezed gently.

Above all, that was something they could do, and it was all that mattered.

Also, it would buy him some time to make up his mind.

* * *

Anna did not know what devil had influenced her when she had blurted out her idea before she could censor herself. It was not her place to talk. She was just Lady Mary's maid, worse, just a maid in a strange house, and she had spoken her mind before even consulting with Mrs. Evans the housekeeper, which would have been the correct thing to do.

She had behaved just like O'Brien would have done, and, to be honest, her audacity had taken her by surprise.

Was it the blatant growing intimacy between her mistress and Sir Richard?

Since the funeral and John's arrest, Anna had been the privileged witness of some significant changes that seemed to puzzle everyone, upstairs and downstairs, back in Downton. Mr. Carson suspected another foul play on the publisher's part, which was a reasonable assumption, given the man's history. She had heard the Earl complaining about the way his daughter was deserting Mr. Matthew at the worse moment, and laying all the blame on the newspaperman's shoulders. Anna knew better. Of course, the couple did not look at each other with the same passionate and anguished stare, the way Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew used to do. However, when Dr. Sowerby agreed with her idea of a soothing bath, Anna could not help but notice the silent exchange before Sir Richard went and discussed the better way to bring Mr. Michael to the bathtub without harming him, whereas Lady Mary decided with Mrs. Evans that the bath would be a good occasion for changing the damp, soiled sheets. They were becoming each other's crutch.

Was it the tacit way Lady Mary began to act as the future Lady Mary Carlisle and the way the staff seemed to accept her?

As Mrs. Evans left the room to call for the maids, implicitly leaving Lady Mary in command of the situation, Anna saw her mistress talk briefly with the nurse then approach the butler, asking him if it was possible to warm the bathroom before bringing the patient in, moving across the crowded room as naturally as she would in Downton. A little less than a month ago, Anna had done her mistress' hair, studying her tired, almost haggard expression in the mirror, listening to her as she worried about her first visit to her fiancé's home, to her fiancé's family. Now, she acted as she owned the house, assured of her place in the world in spite of the chaos around her. Her discussion with Mr. Wallace over, Lady Mary finally motioned the maid to join her in the en-suite bathroom and assist her with the preparations. It was then Anna realized that everybody had been wrong about her mistress ever since the beginning of the war, and Lady Mary more than anybody. It was not her love for the heir that made her better and sweeter. It was adversity that made her stronger and more reliable.

Was it the gruff piece of advice Sir Richard gave her this morning to help John out of his prison?

Anna was still most ambivalent about the man. He was ambitious, manipulative, cynical, and proud. Everything Mr. Matthew was not. The opposite of everything the Crawleys cherished and valued. Yet, she could not deny his unshakable devotion to the few people he considered his own, his friends and his family. As she walked to the bathroom, she glimpsed him shrug out of his waistcoat, get rid of his tie and roll up his sleeves. Silently, as if his nephew and he were the only occupants in the room, he sat down on the bed and began talking to him with a thick, almost unrecognizable brogue, stroking his damp hair, explaining what they were going to do. Sir Richard Carlisle's world was simple. There were _his_ people, then the _others_. At best, he was indifferent to the second. He would open his veins for the first. His generosity and his kindness were scarce, and did not come cheap, but they were real. When, earlier this morning, he had taken a few moments before heading to the office to mumble an awkward apology about the _thing_ back at Downton and give her the first solid lead since John's arrest, she had to accept the idea that there was much more to this strange man than his initial harshness and his natural gruffness.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Mary let a small grin form on her lips as she proceeded as Wallace told her to turn the radiator in the lavish bathroom. Old habits died hard, they said, and in the butler's case, his military training was never far from the polished surface of his latest function. Right now, he sounded much more like a diligent and efficient sergeant than a respectful butler. Carson would be horrified at such a behavior. Yet, she paid it no mind, glad as she was to be able to act at last, to escape from the feeling of powerlessness that had harassed her all day.

This feeling of liberation, albeit temporary, was contagious, she noticed as she glanced around her. Mrs. Evans had called for the maids and asked for new, clean linens. Anna had joined her in the bathroom and helped her to prepare the room for the bath. Hot, steamy water filled the bathtub and Mary added scented oils. The fresh fragrance would be a welcome change even in the semi-conscious state Michael was in. Sowerby went in and gave them more instructions. Towels were placed on the radiator so that they would be nice and warm to dry the patient after the bath. They could not afford to lose the benefit of the bath by letting Michael get cold, which would have a terrible effect on his lungs.

Of course, what they were doing would not change the final outcome, everybody knew it. However, the simple idea of being useful, the hope of soothing the dying man even for an hour, these feelings guided their steps and motivated their sudden agitation, and their unexpected sense of cooperation. Everything was upside down. She listened to Wallace and Richard accept the nurse's consigns while Sowerby and Mrs. Evans, for different reasons, led the dance

Strangely, she did not care, for all she focused on was the goal of all this agitation, alleviating Michael's pain. For the first time since she had come back to London, she felt useful, and for the first time, she began to understand really what had driven Sybil these past years.

It was not about romantic concepts like love or compassion or pity.

It was not about helping the once love of her life endure the worst moment in his life.

It was about doing what needed to be done and be able to look at oneself in the mirror at the end of the day.

It was about fighting against the flow of contradictory events and having no regrets at the end of the day.

It was about what she, Mary Crawley, could do to _build something worth having_, with her own hands.

There were no curses, just people who gave up without trying.

There were no maledictions or fatalities, just men reluctant to take their responsibilities.

Mary went back to Michael's room where the maids were waiting to change the sheets and air the room, chase away the smell of sickness and looming death. Richard had sat down on the bed, and was waiting for her signal. Lost in his thoughts, or perhaps reminiscences of brighter days, he did not notice her at first and she needed to walk to him and touch his shoulder lightly.

"Ya ready?" He did not care to hide his accent anymore.

She closed her eyes as a way of answering.

"A'right."

He got up, gathered his nephew in his arms and lifted him almost brusquely. The grimace on his face revealed he did not expect Michael to be so light.

Cursing under his breath, Richard put the patient back on the bed, waiting for the cries of pain to subside before proceeding again, with Sowerby and the nurse's assistance this time.

Mary observed the group as they progressed to the bathroom, suddenly worried by the hollow expression on her fiancé's face, and the cold resolution in his eyes.

* * *

Anna watched as Sir Richard slowly eased his nephew into the filled bathtub, assisted by the doctor who cradled his head and the nurse who supported his scrawny legs. The moans and whimpers were almost unbearable to hear, and she questioned the wisdom of her idea. What good could be done if the simple action of moving the patient brought him more pain? Thankfully, the owner of the house had built the very same en-suite bathrooms the Earl and Mr. Carson were so horrified at when told about the projects about Haxby, which made the whole operation easier, and, hopefully, the less painful possible. The sheer modernity of the room, the dark marble, the pseudo ancient mosaic, the bright copper taps, the huge bathtub, were quite unsettling for anybody used to the stoical installations in Downton. Sir Richard enjoyed his comfort, and showing off his hard earned money as well. Yet, when, after a minute or two, the moans and whimpers turned into relaxed sighs, she had to concede that, for all its excesses, the bathroom was most useful.

Enjoying the respite the bath was giving to everyone, Mr. Michael included, Anna walked out of the room discretely and went to an open window, considering the London scenery unfolding before her, the many lights that spangled the night, the endless humming of the city. She could not deny she had begun unconsciously to redefine her own place in a world far from Downton. It was quite unsettling because, even when John and she had started to build their castle in the sky, they had settled it in a universe close to Downton, as if they could not cut their bridges, weighed down by fifteen years of service on her part and unconditional loyalty on his part. How could you imagine yourself in another place when this house had been the limit of your universe for so long? How could you imagine yourself deserting the man who had shared the same nightmare?

Sir Richard had told her to go back to the war, and had given a letter of introduction so that she could consult the archives of his newspapers. Unconvinced, but desperate for a lead, any lead, she had followed his advice and had spent the afternoon in a smelly, dusty, labyrinth of wood. She unfolded yellowed papers, read triumphant headlines and reports, and discovered revolting pictures.

Several pictures were signed by a certain Richard Carlisle and showed burnt farms, elders, women and children, Boers and Black, in a rudimentary camp, their faces gaunt and their eyes empty. An article signed by another familiar name, Patrick McAllister, raged against the use of Scottish troops in such butchery and condemned the existence of the British Empire.

They were the only ones. The other papers celebrated the heroism of the British troops and glorified the British Empire.

The idea that John had participated to these horrors, that he had put a farm, other people's house and fields, to the torch, that he had taken women and children to these camps because he had been ordered to, was sickening. Years earlier, his mother had told her he had come back a different man from Africa.

Everything was clearer now.

Vera must have been the target of his self-loathing, and their existence had become hell. No wonder the idea of John happy and starting a new life was unbearable to her.

Lord Grantham had lived the same nightmare, done the same things, and hopefully shared the same doubts. Nobody could let a fellow soldier down.

Anna still did not know how to prove John was innocent – the contrary was not conceivable – but now she had the arguments to persuade her husband to defend himself for once and stop punishing himself.

* * *

Four o'clock in the morning.

Richard could not sleep.

If the nights before, he had managed to rest for a few hours, literally knocked out by sheer exhaustion, now, he was even unable to close his eyes.

In spite of Sowerby's and Mary's protestations, he had worked late in his office to exhaust himself on the intricacies of accounts and reports. When the numbers had begun to blur before his eyes, he had tried to lie down on the sofa, to no avail, and had finally got up, more restless and unnerved than ever.

No sounds were coming from Michael's room, and a mix of dread and relief submerged him as he stalked across the corridor.

Was it over?

The now familiar coughing that welcomed him when he pushed the door open proved him wrong.

It was not over.

The bath had proved to be a success and had managed to relax Michael and soothe his pain enough to let the morphine take effect.

It was a good thing.

It should be a good thing.

He was not sure anymore.

_Make it stop._

Michael had pleaded him earlier in the evening, when the pain was unbearable, before the bath.

_Please, make it stop._

And, with a trembling hand, he had motioned Richard to open a drawer where a syringe and a phial were hidden behind a book, a copy of _The Jungle Book_ his uncle had offered him as a birthday gift many years ago.

Speechless, Richard had closed the drawer almost abruptly, looking around him, checking for any witness of the silent exchange. Fortunately, everybody was busy, anxious to give him and his nephew some privacy.

_Please._

Hours later, his hands were still trembling at the mere thought of what Michael had suggested.

Richard could claimed he had entertained the idea before. But seeing the plea in the boy's eyes transformed a mere idea into a frightening reality, and he did not know if he had the stomach for that.

Do no harm. That was Sowerby's motto, and Richard now realized how powerful it was, even for an atheist like him.

Make it end. This was Michael's plea and he could not let him down. Not now.

Richard prided himself on being a man who was able to make quick, and efficient, decisions, which had led him where he was now, at the top of society. Yet, this was a problem he was utterly unable to solve, much to his shame.

Unconsciously, his path had led him to Mary's room, and he stood there, in front of the closed door, for a long time. He felt like a stalker, he was no better than Pamuk, yet, at the same time, he needed her comfort so desperately.

Another decision he was unable to make.

He was lost, plain and simple.

The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs startled him. Not wanting to be discovered standing just outside his fiancée's room – even he could see how inappropriate that was – he hurried down the corridor, back to his own quarters.

"Richard?" a soft voice called him.

He smiled ruefully at the irony. Of course, he had stood before an empty room. He turned around to discover Mary clad in her dressing gown and nightdress, her face was pale and her eyes darkened by the lack of sleep. In a strange way, the scene was quite reminiscent of the night after Lavinia's funeral.

Two people unable to sleep in a silent, suffering house.

"Y'know, I'm seriously thinking about buying a piano and put it in the servants' hall downstairs," he deadpanned, his voice ringing false to his own ears.

"You can't sleep on a piano."

"You can forget for a while. Walking across the garden late at night isn't very restful either."

"You can forget for a while," she shot back his own words at him.

In the silence of the night, Michael's coughing resounded painfully.

"Richard, you need to rest."

"You too."

They stood there, defying each other, determined to bring the other back to their room.

But four o'clock in the morning was no hour for any battle of wills. Sighing, Richard took the hand she extended and led her back to her room. When she tugged him in, he did not resist. When she crept back under the blanket, he took off his belt, shoes and socks, and joined her.

As he gathered her in his arms, he thought the situation was most inappropriate.

He did not care.


	7. First interlude part1

So, after a rather long hiatus, here's a new chapter for this story. This chapter, and the next one, do broach a rather serious topic (the M warning is there for something), and I'd want to say it was never my intention to hurt any feelings. I just try to explore different, and perhaps more realistic, circumstances in which Richard and Mary could have worked as a team, and more. Once more, my main source of inspiration here is Roger Martin du Gard.

As always, a big thank you for reading and reviewing, and a special thanks to the ever patient MrsTater.

**Chapter six: Sad night and bittersweet morning**

_London, May 14th, 1919_

The dim light of a rainy morning filtered through the heavy curtains. Mary disentangled herself from Richard's sleepy embrace, careful not to wake him from his much needed slumber, and rolled on her side to check the time.

_Half past seven._

She sighed. At best, she had got three hours of sleep, which was more than insufficient if the day to come was as dreadful as the day before. However, sleeplessness was a cruel adversary, and she had been unable to close her eyes again after the first raindrops had begun to resound on the bow window, about half an hour ago, or maybe more.

Mary shivered, buried herself further under the blanket, and rolled closer to her fiancé's warmth. With the rain, it seemed that cooler, more seasonal temperatures had made their reappearance, and she found that Richard's presence in her bed was very convenient, in spite of the severe lack of propriety of their current situation. Unable to close her eyes again, she decided that observing him in the morning light would do as a suitable replacement for the lack of sleep.

Richard was resting, at last. In his sleep, his features looked considerably more relaxed, making him appear much younger. However, the anxious crease on his forehead, and the occasional, sudden jerking of his head or his limbs, as if he was fencing some invisible adversary, indicated that images of the agony followed him, even in his slumber. Tentatively, Mary stroked his cheek with a light caress – she had noticed earlier that the gesture seemed to soothe him temporarily – and relished in the unfamiliar sensation of the day's growth of blond stubble. He was snoring softly, his mouths slightly agape, and she thought she had seen him drooling on his pillow.

Mary snuggled closer, thankful for his warmth, thankful for his being alive.

It was not the first time she shared a bed with a man, and the memory of her first experience had followed her in her nightmares for years. In the middle of the night in her room at Downton, she had used to wake up suddenly, her chest constricting with dread as she battled against Pamuk's imaginary dead weight. When Matthew had proposed her back in 1914, she had been still struggling with the consequences of that dreadful night, and had found herself facing an impossible equation. She could have told everything, as she had wanted in the first place, and risk a painful rejection, which happened anyway. She could have keep quiet, like her mother had advised, and risk a dolorous explanation the first time she would have woken up screaming, battling with her husband's body thinking it was Pamuk's dead one. Matthew's impatience and inability to make a concession had hurt deeply, but, at the same time, he had provided her an easy escape, quite ironically.

Years later, as she buried her face against Richard's firm chest and found her place in the circle of his arms again, Mary discovered with great relief that she was healed at last. When she had invited her fiancé in earlier, Pamuk and the memory of his corpse were the very last problems on her mind. She had been tired and anxious. Richard had been exhausted and afraid and angry. Finding shelter in each other's arms had felt so natural, and necessary to face another, dreadful day.

As Richard's regular breathing lulled her to a dreamy state between slumber and consciousness, Mary let her mind wander back to the morning when he had proposed on the platform of Downton station.

_I think very highly of you._

_We make a good team._

At the time, she had felt it was the most unromantic proposal ever, so different from Matthew's passionate declaration in the dining room two years before.

Matthew had gone down on his knee and took her hand with a slightly trembling one, a timid smile of wonder on his face.

Richard had stood casually on the platform, not even bothering to touch her, a daring and amused smile forming on his lips as he saluted her before boarding his train.

For more than two years, Mary had focused on these very different behaviors to measure the depth of her suitors' affections. It was only in front of Lavinia's grave that she had understood the real nature of these differences.

Matthew wore his heart on his sleeve, and was utterly unable to hide anything: his happiness and his moodiness, his affections and his anger. Being the recipient of his passion was exhilarating, but, the other side of the coin could be very painful, as she had discovered this spring.

_We are cursed, you and I._

Richard bottled up his feelings, all of them, and could be a very frustrating man. Like a poker player, he observed cautiously before making his move, and the carefully carved masks he used in his daily, theatrical life were uncountable. As a consequence, his outbursts of authentic affection or anger only came out when he let his guard down.

Before Lavinia's grave, both under the cruel spring sun and in the cool nigh of April, the realization had shocked her rather unexpectedly.

Matthew was not the only man in the world.

Richard loved her at least as much as Matthew did. He just chose very different ways to express his feelings.

His constant amused smile when she was around.

The way his hand lingered on her elbow as he kissed her cheek.

His regular, faithful visits to Downton.

_I think very highly of you._

_We make a good team._

Coming from a man like Richard, those words were the equivalent of the most impassioned declaration, and now she could value their significance.

You can rely on me, and I will rely on you.

It was very simple, in fact.

In a crisis, Richard was the first person she would turn to, and maybe she already knew it deep down when she had run to London to seek his help against Vera Bates. These past weeks had revealed that Mary could be his crutch as much as he had been hers after Lavinia's death.

They trusted each other.

As Richard's snoring got louder, making it definitely impossible for his fiancée to go back to sleep, Mary found this was a very nice change.

The light drizzle of the early morning had given way to a colder, heavier rain by noon. From his office to which he had retreated while Sowerby examined Michael, Richard could hear the regular sound of the droplets of rain hitting the window and the distinct splashing of cars driving in the puddles of the street.

_Another rainy day._

Born and raised in Scotland, he was usually rather immune to the quirks of the weather – compared to the Inverness area where his mother's family came from, London could be considered as a tropical place – but today, he could not say that the grey, gloomy clouds did not affect him or his mood.

For the hundredth time, he tried to concentrate on the papers and files scattered in front of him on his desk. He had promised an old friend from Glasgow to select some of his new designs to promote them in the art section of the _Telegram_. The architect Charles Mackintosh had designed the interior of Richard's London house and currently was helping him with the renovation of Haxby. As a young journalist, Richard had covered an art exhibition in Glasgow back in the early 1890's for his Edinburgh paper and Mackintosh's radically bold new designs had pushed him to write an overenthusiastic article about a new leader of architecturein Britain. Fortunately for Richard's credibility as a journalist, Charles' future works confirmed all his early promises and he became the recognized leader of _Art Nouveau_ in Britain, as Richard had prematurely predicted. Since then, the journalist-turned-newspaper-tycoon had always tried to promote his friend's work and more generally Scottish artists' in his papers, and in private life as well – showing to the snobbish, London high society what Scots could do and rub it on their nose was always an added bonus.

One design in particular caught his eye – stained-glass decorated with geometric roses that could complement the dining room ideally, and stun her grand-mother into a shocked, disapproving silence – and he decided to consult Mary about it later.

_Mary._

She had gone out tohave luncheon at her aunt's townhouse. The atmosphere in his house was getting heavier, stuffier each day, and he could not blame her for wanting to escape the place for a little while. Also, she probably needed to process the quickening progression of their relationship. Richard himself was a little overwhelmed. Drifting to sleep and waking up by her side had felt so natural that he was not sure how he could cope if she suddenly decided to retreat once again, especially when the decision he had finally taken could drive her away from him, definitely.

On the other hand, not doing anything was absolutely inconceivable.

Richard just hoped he would be able to deal with the guilt afterwards: neither Mary nor anybody deserved to share the weight, and the possible consequences, of the decision he had taken in the depths of his mind and his conscience.

_Something had to be done._

A tentative knock on the door Richard had come to know too well these past few weeks preceded Sowerby's appearance in his office. The physician seemed even more tired and defeated than the day before, and for a second, Richard thought it was the end. Alas, there was no grief in these exhausted eyes and bowed head.

Just defeat.

Michael's former mentor took the nearest chair and sat down heavily, not waiting for any invitation. They were past these useless formalities. His moist bottom lip was slightly trembling beneath the greying goatee.

"The kidneys are working once again."

A frustrated sigh accompanied what should have been good news, in other circumstances. The day before, Sowerby had said with bitter irony that the kidney failure could be seen as a blessing in disguise since it could hasten the end, at last.

"What does it mean, concretely?"

Richard needed clear words. Sciences never were his strongest points, medicine was a strange territory for him, and his emotions impeded his ability to think clearly and absorb new information the way he was used to.

Another sigh.

"We're back to square one."

Not able to control his frustration anymore, Richard sprang on his feet and walked to the window behind him, turning his back to the physician.

"Isn't there anything we can do, really?" he wondered aloud, his eyes trained on the puddles forming on the pavement. The scene had a bitter feeling of déjà-vu.

"Richard, we already covered this…"

Déjà-vu indeed.

"Do no harm, right?"

"I can't play God."

"So, you'll let him suffocate."

"I can't, I just can't. Won't you understand?" Sowerby's distraught voice rose as he got up too. "It's not about Michael. It's about the danger of a precedent."

Richard felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't you think I didn't torture myself with this very idea?" His voice was almost a murmur, now. "It's such a slippery slope. If I do it now, how can I be sure no to repeat it? Once a taboo is broken…"

Stubbornly, Richard kept his eyes on the street, hiding his surprise when he recognized through the mist on the window his car parking along the pavement. He did not understand: he had instructed his chauffeur to wait for Mary at her aunt's townhouse.

"One day I could even be wrong, and could end up killing a patient who was not condemned after all…"

The hand on Richard's shoulder was shaking. The man had given much more thought to this than the publisher had given him credit for. To be honest, he had been agonizing about this as much as Richard had for the last few days.

"There's a simple solution then," Richard pronounced flatly.

Sowerby's hand flew from the shoulder it was resting on, as if it had been burnt.

"No…"

Richard turned away from the window, tearing his eyes from Mary's silhouette as she exited the car, to consider the physician sadly.

"I'm no doctor, and, as they say in France, it was the _der des der_, so the circumstances should never present themselves again, as far as I'm concerned." If Sowerby had been torturing himself about the idea, Richard had done everything to rationalize it as much as his cold, calculating brain could.

"Richard, no…" The physician took a step backwards. "The risks are…"

"The risks are manageable. It's my home, after all. I just need you to get rid of this pesky, bigot nurse of yours for the night."

"You made up your mind, then." It was a statement. "As I feared…" Sowerby took a step forward this time, and joined Richard by the window.

"Are you sure? The end is near. You can wait for it, as difficult as it is, without getting your hands…"

"I waited for too long, I waited for Michael to beg for it, damn it!" Richard hit the frame of the window. "Don't you think it's enough already?"

"If word get out…"

"It won't, or would you be the one to spill the beans, _Doctor_?" Richard was back on his familiar territory, the one in which he used his height, his cool voice, and his social position to intimidate his interlocutor.

His eyes met a worthy opponent.

"I mean your staff, your future wife even, her maid…"

"They don't need to know."

"And what about the guilt? Will you be able to look your wife in the eyes? Will you be able to look at Michael's mother at all?"

"I couldn't look at my sister in the eyes if I didn't do anything." The more Sowerby was trying to challenge his resolve, the more Richard found how firm his decision was.

"You can lose everything…"

With a slight movement of his head, the physician gestured at Mary and the modern car she had exited.

"I know."

Richard restrained himself and did not comment on the fact he could be prosecuted as a murderer for putting an end to his nephew's agony while generals who had ordered thousandth of deaths because of their idiocy would never be troubled in any way.

Sowerby's hand went back to his shoulder and the physician murmured:

"And how will you do it? Do you know the dosage necessary?"

Richard stood silent, helpless almost. Making up his mind had been so painful a process he had not considered the logistics of his act, yet.

"If, tomorrow morning, Nurse Jenkins was to find an anomaly in the stock of medicine she surveys with a maniacal care, problems would arise surely, you know…"

Richard considered his interlocutor dubiously. Was it a last attempt at dissuading him? Or was it…?

Suddenly, Sowerby took his hand between his trembling ones, as if to say good bye when, in reality, he slipped a phial to Richard. Then, the next moment, the physician was walking to the door.

_A coward's bravery was bravery nonetheless._

"I'll be back at the end of the afternoon to check on Michael and give him his morphine for the night," the physician announced aloud when he reached the door.

_Something will be done._

_Richard was absent. _

Mary observed him as he grimaced at the realization he had poured too much sugar in his afternoon tea.

Richard only took his tea with sugar in the morning, or when his day work was bound to last until late in the evening.

Neither was the case now.

Obviously, he was preoccupied and, contrary to the last few days when he had leaned on her, sometimes quite heavily, he was shutting her out.

His downcast eyes, the way he avoided looking directly at her, his surprise at seeing her coming back from her aunt's so early, all his behavior seemed to indicate that for the first time he had invited her to London, he was uneasy with her presence in his house.

This was painfully unexpected.

Mary had thought she found some respite from the drama in Downton, and Richard's avoidance plunged her into the same turmoil once again. As she sipped her own tea, she made a grimace of her own: she had let it turn cold without even noticing.

"What's wrong, Mary?"

The slight concern in his voice almost reassured her. At the very least, she was not just some furniture in the boldly decorated tea room.

"You don't like the designs?"

Lost in the observation of her fiancé, she had forgotten she was supposed to give her advice on some stained glass window Richard wanted in their dining room in Haxby.

"Well, it is rather… modern, and a little unsettling at first. But I quite like it, I think." The geometrical forms were surprising in a catalogue, and she had frowned many times when Richard had presented her with sketches for Haxby. However, after frequenting his house in London daily, and being able to see and live in full rooms decorated in a similar fashion, Mary had grown used to these designs, and had learnt to appreciate them fully.

"Good."

"What? No _I told you so_? No _I can't wait for your grandmother to come and dine with us_?" she teased, referring to a past debate about the quality of modern Scottish art, wanting him to utter something else from monosyllabic answers.

"Glad you like it," he shrugged, a small smile on his lips. "Really."

His teacup was now forgotten on the silver tray.

Mary abandoned her own cup and the catalogue.

"Things look better, up there." She cringed at her own choice of word. _Better_ was really a poor adjective under such circumstances.

"The pain seems manageable again, indeed. And, Sowerby said that his breathing was labored, but not to the point of suffocation, so it's good…"

Richard reached for her hand, finally.

"Let's hope now his heart gives up at last. It would be the best outcome…"

Mary raised her head sharply and observed Richard once more. Something in his voice was odd.

His eyes were tired, and dark circles had formed under them. His face was pale, and the lines on his temples, on his forehead and around his mouth seemed more accentuated than before. This was nothing new.

However, his usually calm demeanor had been replaced by constant movement and fidgeting. His hand went up continually to smooth his hair or scratch his ear. When he sat down, his feet could not stay quiet, betraying a growing nervousness. She had never seen him in such a state.

"Why don't you go up and rest a little? You did more than your share, yesterday…"

His suggestion did not come out of the blue. Ever since she had come back to London, he had wavered between his gratefulness at her being here for him, and his concern for her well-being. But, once again, there was something in his tone…

She thought they could lean on each other, and, blatantly, this was not his case. For some hidden reason, he did not want her to be there at the moment.

"I'm fine, really. Thank you for your concern," she replied, offering a reassuring smile. For the third time in the last half hour, she saw him reach for his breast pocket, in a mechanical gesture to check for his cigarettes. Yet, he did not need to reach for them in his pocket since the leather covered case lay forgotten on the tray by the teacups.

A maid came in to retrieve the tray, and they let her gather the untouched plates and cups in silence.

When the door closed, leaving them alone against all property once again, Richard covered his face with trembling hands.

"God Mary, I can't do it…"

Confusion was her first reaction.

Then she realized, and she was glad she had not eaten anything. Thankfully, Richard's hands still covered his face, and he could not see the fugitive expression of horror on her features.

Then she was ashamed at her hypocritical reaction. She had tried to push Sowerby to do _anything_ the other night. Who was she to judge?

Finally, she understood that, in a moment of weakness, he had trusted her with a secret that could _really_ destroy him.

Several choices appeared in front of her: denouncing him, using his secret against him at the mere mention of Pamuk or…

Before the war, before seeing Downton full of burnt and amputated officers, before seeing a broken Matthew in his hospital bed, she would have saved her skin.

Before Lavinia's death, she would have countered Richard's blackmail with one of her own.

But that was _before_.

Mary joined Richard on the sofa, putting what she wanted to be a comforting hand on his knee.

"You don't have to do it alone, you know."


	8. First interlude part2

So here's the last part of the first arc of this story aka **Michael's arc**. I borrowed two extracts of Kipling's _Jungle Book_, from "Toomai the Elephant" and "The White Seal".

After this chapter, this story will be on hiatus for a while, to give me some time to recover from chapters I had a great time to write, but also a rather difficult time. Meanwhile, Chance encounters will go on on an irregular basis.

Thank you for reading and reviewing, as usual, and a _gigante abrazo para la señora Tater_...

Finally, on a completely unrelated note, Lacrimosa's latest album is da bomb...

FIRST INTERLUDE: Sad night and bittersweet morningLondon, May 15th, 1919

_Half past midnight_.

For once, the house was silent, or almost. No rushed footsteps on the carpets, no hushed pressing instructions, no hurriedly opening and closing doors betrayed the occurrence of a new bout of feverish pain or a new crisis of suffocation.

As promised, Sowerby had sent the nurse home, arguing that she looked dreadful and needed to get some rest. The poor woman had made the task much easier than they had initially thought. The days and nights of near constant vigil had taken their toll and she had almost killed her patient when she had handed Sowerby a syringe with a bubble of air. When she had protested, more as an habit of work ethic than anything, the physician pointed out in his most chilling tone that she was in no shape to do her work properly and was bound to make a mistake sooner or later. She needed to get some sleep and come back in the morning, well rested and efficient once again. She had not needed to be told twice and she had left the house at the end of the afternoon, unable to hide her relief as she made her escape.

Anna had replaced the nurse and teamed up with the old doctor. It had been decided they would keep vigil until one o'clock, then would be replaced by Mary and Richard. This way, everybody would be able to rest a little, _hopefully_. To ease the patient, Sowerby had changed the sedative: it was not as efficient against the pain but it had the merit to knock Michael out for a few hours.

The other merit of this sedative was that its association with the content of the phial Richard had in his possession would prove fatal for the patient heart. Sowerby had taken great pains to warn everybody in the house against the dangers of such a combination with morphine, covertly giving his instructions to Richard at the same time.

"The damned old fox," Mary heard Richard mutter. "He knew all along about the phial."

A quick search in Michael's room had confirmed a sudden suspicion: Sowerby had heard Michael's plea the night before and had decided to take his responsibilities as well.

But he could not do it alone. Decades of taboo paralyzed him, and the idea of killing his last student, his last spiritual son, must have been unbearable.

Richard had not been able either, and Mary had completed the trio.

Willingly.

Decidedly.

Mary stroked Richard's stomach through the crumpled shirt and lift her head from his shoulder where it was resting to consider him.

"I regret my earlier criticism. I misjudged the man," she answered before settling again on his chest.

"You barely knew him, and the same was true for him. You don't talk about this with a stranger."

"Indeed," she whispered.

Tense silence filled Mary's room, to which they had retreated, once again.

"Richard?"

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do with the syringe? Afterwards, I mean..." If she had to be an accomplice, she would be entirely, and she was well decided to make certain Richard or Sowerby would never suffer any consequences for an act of humanity.

Mary sat up to observe his reaction.

"Honestly, I haven't thought about it. I'll find a way…" The confusion in his voice clearly showed his lack of plan.

Mary had one.

"You'll give me the syringe and the phial. I'll forget my handkerchief in my room and I'll have to come back to retrieve it. Tomorrow, I'll pay another visit to Aunt Rosamund and get rid of everything on my way." This was less than ideal, but it was something, at least.

A mix of admiration and dread and something else lit his eyes as he sat up as well.

"You would be an active accomplice…" He did not need to go further.

"I won't let you shoulder this burden alone. I've made my decision, Richard."

There would be no coming back. They were in this together.

_For better for worse. _

_In sickness and in health_.

No vows pronounced out loud in front of a crowded church would bind them together more than the future events of the night.

They were a team.

* * *

_Half past one._

As decided earlier in the afternoon, Mary and Richard had replaced Anna and Sowerby at the patient's bedside.

So far, the sedative had been efficient, and Michael lay still in his bed. Only the sound of his ragged, shallow breathing betrayed the poor state of his lungs. For the first time in days, his face was not contorted by a pained grimace, and the once healthy young man looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

Instinctively, Richard searched for Mary's eyes across the room. She had settled on the sofa by the window to give him some space. Whatever book she was reading did not captivate her attention since, as soon as he turned back to face her, he saw a pair of brown eyes assessing calmly. Wordlessly, she gestured him to join her on the sofa.

He was getting cold feet, and she had felt it.

"If I understood correctly, your purpose is to avoid more suffering, isn't it?" she whispered as soon as he sat down heavily next to her.

"Yes."

"The longer you wait, the greater chance for another fit of suffocation," she stated the cold, hard facts.

_The cold and careful Mary Crawley._

She had changed so much since Lavinia's funeral. He had walked a devastated girl back home, and now, a woman sat by his side. He was one lucky bastard.

"You're right. Of course you're right, my darling. It's just that…" His emotions were getting the better of him. "Mickey's asleep, and if I do as planned, the last thing I would have ever heard from him is a plea to end his suffering." To his own ears, his whispering sounded as if he was shouting the words.

"It's not about you. It's about him, Richard," she snapped back. "At least, you're here, by his side. Not many soldiers had this chance. Not many parents either."

Mary was right, of course. It was high time to say goodbye.

A warm hand stroked the growing stubble on his cheeks, comforting him, giving him the strength he needed so desperately.

"All right."

Richard took a deep breath, the kind he had taken as a youngster before starting his first winter ascension in the Alps, the kind he had taken before opening his editor's office door to tell him his management was rubbish, and he got up.

With measured steps, careful not to make the wooden floor creak, he walked back to his stool by the bed. On his way, he reached for the syringe and the phial in his pocket. With practiced gestures, albeit a bit rusty, he filled up the syringe with the dose of morphine – the knowledge of basic first aid often made the difference between life and death in a mountain incident. Mechanically, he searched for a compress and the bottle of alcohol, to avoid infection.

"D'you r'ly think it's necessary?" A mirthless laugh escaped Michael's lips, followed by a fit of coughing. A trail of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, a sure sign of another episode of suffocation.

It was high time, indeed.

"Habit," Richard simply commented. He did not trust his voice anymore.

Suppressing the trembling of his hands, he put the tourniquet around the scrawny arm and searched for a vein.

Then he plunged the needle.

Michael grimaced at his lack of bedside manner.

"Sorry, kiddo."

More coughing, and more blood. Michael's breathing was getting more labored by the minute.

High time.

With a feeble gesture of the head, he motioned to the bed table, his stare clearly expecting something more from Richard.

The book, of course.

Richard let Mary retrieve the syringe and phial that he had abandoned on the bed and reached for the drawer. Clearing his throat, he began to read.

"I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain – I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.

I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane: I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.

I will go out until the day, until the morning break – Out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress;

I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake. I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!"

Rudyard Kipling's words danced before his eyes. Fortunately, he knew the book by heart.

* * *

_Half past two._

Mary had walked back to her room then gone back in Michael's one, and Richard was still reading the story of Toomai.

In spite of his emotion, he was able to read steadily, his deep voice lulling his nephew to sleep for the very last time. Mary took a vacant stool, joined Richard at Michael's bedside, and _listened_. Once he reached the end of the chapter, he took the young man's arm and checked for a pulse.

The coughing was gone now, and the breathing barely audible.

And Richard began another chapter, the story of Kotick, the white seal.

"Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,

And black are the waters that sparkled so green.

The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us

At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,

Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!

The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,

Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas!"

At the end of the chapter, Richard repeated the routine. This time all the color drained from his face and Mary feared he might faint on the spot.

"You should go fetch Sowerby," he stated simply, his voice blank.

Glad for the occasion to escape the room and compose herself again – the sight of Michael in his bed had evoked unwanted memories – Mary got up and gave Richard the space he needed for the moment.

* * *

_Half past three._

Sowerby had confirmed the death and noted the hour, without comment. As he put his things back into his bag with an automaton's movements, he had not uttered a single word. Silently, he had walked to the door in Richard's company. Only when they had reached the door, the physician had managed a few, strangled words.

"All my condolences to your family, Richard," he stuttered while they were shaking hands. Then he added in a whisper: "You did the right thing."

Then he was out, leaving Richard standing in the vestibule, alone with his ghosts, unable to move a limb. He wanted to shout, to cry, to break something, to punch someone, to do anything that would stay the unstoppable wave of anger and disgust that submerged him.

_What had he done?_

Intellectually, he _understood_ he had made the right decision. Instinctively, he _knew_ deep down he had been right. But no rationalization, no matter how valid it was, was enough to stop the rapidly growing nausea.

Richard barely made it to the bathroom, staggering along the corridor like a drunk, before he emptied the content of his stomach. Here he was, the powerful Sir Richard Carlisle, on his knees, bending over the edge of the toilet, heaving and spitting even well after his stomach had been emptied.

A pitiful sight, for sure.

_Four o'clock._

Richard had walked Sowerby down, and when half an hour passed without his having come back up, Mary worried.

She was back in her own room, her own sanctuary right now, and she passively let Anna do her hair for the night. Mary had protested feebly, arguing Anna needed her sleep, that she could do without pampering for once.

"Sleeping in your day clothes will only bring back bad memories and keep you awake, m'lady. You need to be well rested tomorrow." Anna was right, the next would be hellish: making the arrangements for the funeral, making it possible for Richard's family to travel to London in such a short notice, organizing the wake… "And I don't mind the occupation," the maid went on, her eyes downcast.

"Michael grew up on us, didn't he?" What a difference a single month could make.

"Yes, m'lady," Anna answered, a light quivering in her voice.

"I told him all about Pamuk, you know," Mary went on, trying to replace the last image she had of the young man by the memory of his giggling silhouette under the spring sun.

"What did he say?"

"He laughed, and laughed some until there were tears in his eyes."

_I wish I had known him sooner_.

A discrete rasp on the door interrupted her nostalgic trail of thoughts, fortunately. Now was not the time for regrets.

The door opened to reveal a rather haggard Richard. He was pale, almost greenish, and his tousled hair was wet with the water he must have splashed on his face, if the droplets on his shirt were any indication. Having noticed Anna's presence, he stood frozen by the door, uncertain of what to do next, unable to utter a word in his own house.

He was utterly lost.

Mary got up to greet him, to reach him.

"Thank you Anna, that'll be all for tonight. Try to get some rest, if you can," she dismissed her maid as gently as she could. It had been Mary's idea to bring her London to help forget her own nightmares about Bates' fate, only to plunge her confident into another nightmare. It was not fair to her.

"Yes, m'lady." Anna turned to the man still standing motionless by the door. "All my condolences, Sir Richard."

Then she was gone, leaving them alone. Some chaperon she was.

Mary strode to the grieving man and took his hand, repeating the invitation of the night before. Silently, obediently, he followed her to bed.

* * *

_Half past four_

Richard was unable to close his eyes, despite how exhausted he was. Whenever he tried, unstoppable images of the events of the night assaulted his mind in whirlwind of distorted emotions.

By his side, Mary seemed to sleep rather peacefully, as much as such a thing was possible in the current situation. Her breathing was regular, reassuring, almost, and no tossing and turning seemed to betray any nightmare.

Mindful not to wake her, he curled around her and took her in his arms once again, taking comfort in the smell of her hair, in her very presence in his life.

* * *

_Five o´clock_

Big dead brown eyes were staring at her, following her wherever she went. No matter how fast she ran along Downton corridors, they were right behind her. When she reached her childhood hiding place next to Carson's office, they were still there. She was frantic, drawing the curtains closed, and when it was not enough, closing the shutters. Her room was pitch black, and she could feel the presence of their dead stare.

Then, she was suffocating. A weight was pinning her to the mattress. She tried to call for help but no sound came out of her constricted throat. She kicked and pushed, and the body would not move.

_Mary_

A hand was trying to block her arm, twisting it, maintaining her in a defenseless, helpless position. She struggled against it with all her might.

_Mary!_

The bed was shaking now, there was a storm…

"Mary darling, wake up! You're having a nightmare."

Her eyes snapped wide open and, for a few seconds, she felt disorientated. Then, her heartbeats went back to normal. She finally recognized the man in her bed.

_Not a dead Pamuk. A living, and worried, Richard._

"God, I'm sorry, I just…"

He cupped her cheek, drawing her closer."It was Pamuk, wasn't it?"

"So obvious?"

He answered by kissing her lips lightly, chastely almost, to soothe her, calm her.

And the dam broke.

She teased his lips open, hungry for his touch, the feel of his tongue dancing with hers. Acting on their own, her hands divested him of his shirt and undershirt, breaking the kissing just long enough to undress him.

Meanwhile, Richard rid himself of his trousers and underpants, then pulled her nightgown up. His hands were everywhere, on her thigh, on her breast, between her legs.

It was messy, chaotic, raw, purely instinctive, and would be over far too soon.

It was a bad idea.

However, when he entered her, she joined his movements hungrily, relieved to feel his living body, to caress the warm skin of his back, to kiss his face, happy to be alive.

However, when Richard collapsed on the mattress next to her, sweaty and out of breath, when he buried his face into the crook of her neck and let out ragged sobs at last, she was certain this was the best decision she had ever made in her whole life.

_For better for worse. _

_For richer for poorer._

_In sickness and in health_.

She already was Lady Mary Carlisle.

* * *

_Six o'clock_

The song of the nightingale roused Richard from his sleep. Rolling on his other side, he tried to check his alarm-clock, only to remember he was not in his bedroom. He reached for his watch on the bed table, and collapsed again on his pillow.

He could do with a several more hours' of sleep, and so could Mary. In the darkness of the room, he could only imagine her naked silhouette under the covers. His movements had caused her hand to fall from his chest where it rested, as if to make sure he was still warm and alive, and it was now moving, as if searching for him.

Pamuk was a stubborn ghost, really.

Richard knew he should be ashamed of his behavior, of his lack of restraint, considering Mary's difficult history. Instead, he felt deeply grateful - for her help, for her understanding, for her strength.

Taking her hand and placing it back on his chest, he closed his eyes, letting her guard him against the nightmares and difficulties the next day would bring.

They were a good team.

He had known it all along.


	9. Second interlude

So after a month long hiatus, or almost, The healing process is back on, and you can expect weekly updates until Chapter 11. This chapter (which is basically me playing with epistolary fiction) and the next two serve as a transition between the main parts of the story. The depressing days are behind us and the M rating isn't for serious matters anymore, but for funny ones from now. Enjoy!

A big hurrah to MrsTater!

**SECOND INTERLUDE: Correspondence**

**First letter**

_Budapest, May 30__th__, 1919_

My dear Mary,

After three days of rather uneventful travel, with the exception of some understandable tensions while crossing the German border, I finally arrived in Budapest at the end of the afternoon. Ferenc Kádár, my old business associate from before the war, greeted me at the railway station. From a purely professional point of view, I fear this travel will be totally fruitless. There is not much left to invest in. Moreover, the very little that could be saved has been confiscated by the new regime. The war has put Hungary on its knees, and Bela Kun's Soviet Republic is finishing the work, sadly. I may not share many Conservatives' irrational hatred for everything that could be labeled as "red", but what I witnessed in less than a few hours made me lose the last crumbles of sympathy I could have felt for those new regimes. Maybe I'm not totally objective on this point – the idea of losing the benefits of a lifetime work is rather unbearable, I confess – but I think the nationalizations are a disaster in the making. Worse, the reforming of society is nothing more than an excuse for all kind of bullies to terrorize the rest of the population. I really do hope that your future brother-in-law is not that kind of socialist because I am afraid that the occasional dinner at Downton, if your sister and her husband ever come back to Yorkshire, is bound to be rather animated.

However, from a more personal point of view – even the most hardened businessman cannot be totally immune to worry – I am glad to be finally here in Budapest and be able to talk again to long lost friends and associates. The Allies' blockade has taken its toll on Central European populations, and the Spanish flu has finished the work. As I told you before I left England, the last time we met was when he visited London back in 1913, and I have to admit the man I saw today is nothing more than the shell of the exuberant, almost caricatured Hungarian I used to know. Ferenc was too old to be conscripted but he suffered a great deal both from the loss of his two sons and the near starvation the city had to endure during the war. He manages to be a great host still, and cannot wait to meet you in person, "the woman who finally persuaded Richard Carlisle to settle down at last", as he puts it. If you like, we could travel to Hungary once we are married, and once things get better in this country, of course.

(Continued, May, 31th) In spite of everything, Budapest remains an enchanting city and I wish you could be there with me as I enjoy a cup of coffee in old Buda and prepare to soak all day and play chess with Ferenc in Szechenyi bathhouse. He told me so much about these bathes back in 1913, when they first opened. I have waited six years to discover this "marvel" at last, and I hope I will not be disappointed. I suppose this is the moment I have to thank you for having almost literally strong-armed me into my train: I miss you terribly, but, at the same time, being able to see old friends safe and sound, well, as much as it is possible these days, is such a relief. Once more, you were right, and I console myself in your absence hoping that you will be with me next time I travel out of England. There are so many things I want to share with you. Considering how much I have been a rather selfish man all my life, this is a quite frightening concept, but thrilling at the same time.

I cannot wait to hold you again in my arms.

With all my love,

Richard

PS: I do not seem able to find the right words, so I will be blunt. Please do tell me if our times together before I left had any consequence. I will naturally cancel all my plans and come back to England as soon as possible.

PPS: As I am putting the letter into its envelope along with some postcards, I realize now that my words read much more like a reporter's account than a lover's letter. I suppose old habits die hard…

_Downton, June 5__th__, 1919_

Dearest Richard,

First, I hope my letter will find you safe and sound at your hotel in Milan. Then, I have to thank you for your concern. Let me reassure you at once: I am now positive there is no permanent result from our indiscretions.

On the one hand, I cannot help but be a little relieved; I hope you will pardon me this sentiment. As much as my affections for you have deepened these last months, I am not entirely sure I am ready for such a development, especially when you are so far away and I am stuck at Downton with a wonderful but rather overwhelming family.

After the whirlwind of the events that have transpired in London, going back to Downton felt reassuring the first few days. As I told you on the platform, I needed some time to fully appreciate how much my life and my priorities had changed recently. I have to blame you for that, in the most affectionate way. The weeks I spent in London beside you made me reassess many things. What I want now is so different from I thought I wanted less than three months ago! I really needed to go back to Yorkshire to fully realize the importance, and the durability of these changes. Your long-planned trip abroad gave me the occasion to put things into perspective.

Now, on the other hand, I cannot hide the fugitive disappointment I felt when I found outI was not pregnant. It was a foolish and irrational feeling, but its acuteness took me by surprise. I suppose it means that I can safely affirm the newfound depth of my feelings for you and my confidence for our future together.

I miss you as well, and please allow me to be terribly unladylike when I write how much I yearn for your touch and presence beside me at night.

Mary

PS: Do not apologize for your writing style. Your accounts are fascinating and provide a much needed from daily drama in Yorkshire. They are very telling about you, as well, which I like very much.

PPS: Budapest will definitely be one of our destinations in the future, if the situation allows it. Moreover, how do people bathe in Szechenyi pools? You have me curious.

**Second letter**

_Milan, June 9__th__, 1919_

My dear Mary,

You cannot imagine how happy I was to find your letter waiting my arrival in Milan. To be completely honest, even if I knew everything had changed between us, in spite of your repeated reassurances when you saw me off on the platform train, I could not help but be a little, and irrationally, worried at the idea of you being back to Downton and me being even further away than before. I still cannot believe how much you have affected me since the day we met. I can tell you now. Not knowing where you stood and my growing insecurities made me say and do things of which I am not proud. The assurance of your love makes me a stronger man, and a happier one, too. I do think my uncle Liam, you met him at the funeral, grumbled something about how you were too good for a lad like me (I suppose he never forgave me for my insult to the family tradition of living, studying, working and dying in Edinburgh).

I have to add that your support is even more important right now as I am discovering a rather dire and worrying situation in Milan. Groups of former soldiers wearing black shirts parade around town, roughing up people that do not please them. As in Hungary, it is as if some men had not understood that war was over, and had been for months. I remember briefly talking with your father after the armistice and commenting how much people yearn for peace only to be disappointed once they obtained it. I wish I had not been so prophetical… The atmosphere here is dreadful and I am doing my best to shorten the negotiations. Hopefully, new contracts will be signed soon, and my new monthly art review with an international section will become a reality, at last.

How are things in Downton? This great traveler needs some distraction and yearns for some typical and peaceful shenanigans from Yorkshire…

I miss you.

Richard

PS: About bathing habits in Budapest, do not worry, my virtue is intact. People wear appropriate bath attire.

PPS: I keep dreaming about our last night, just before I left England. It can be embarrassing at times.

_Downton, June 13__th__, 1919_

Dearest Richard,

You had me worried in your latest letter. Please, do send a telegram as soon as you leave Italy.

Right now, everything is fine in Downton. Mama frightened us a little when she began to cough again four days ago, but, in the end, it was nothing more than some seasonal ailment. In fact, spring and the first weeks of summer have always been difficult on Mama due to seasonal allergies. If we believe Dr. Clarkson, her bout of flu in March probably made her sensibility to pollens even more acute. Poor Carson is having the most difficult time finding suitable footmen, and keeps on lamenting about the disappearance of past standards. Granny is her usual meddling adorable self (you disagree on that point, but you need to know her more, and let her know you more), and I have the impression she is observing my every move and reaction each time your name or Matthew's is mentioned in a conversation. I suppose that, since Lavinia is sadly gone now, the equation has become very simple for her. I am afraid I will be a huge disappointment on that front. However, she will get used to the idea and will be our best ally in the end, like she is presently for Sybil and Tom (yes, it is Tom now, it has to).

Papa is still seething at the idea of Sybil marrying the _chauffeur_, and the letter we received from Dublin earlier this week only added fuel to the fire. Apparently, they have settled a wedding date, and, of course, they wish us to come to Ireland. Long story short, Papa is absolutely furious and forbids any of us to even set a foot in Dublin, Mama is appalled but will not go against his orders, Granny tells Edith and me to pack our things… I would give anything to be able to spy on future conversations between Granny and Papa, really. I do not want to sell my chicken before they hatch, but would you be able to escort us to Dublin in July? If you manage to keep your mouth shut and not cross Papa further, maybe the idea of a male presence to protect his daughters would convince him to let Edith and me go to the wedding.

(The ink is barely dry I realize now that, if we are not prudent enough, your hypothetical presence would, on the contrary, be an argument to convince to keep us locked in Downton. I will have to play by ear, I guess.)

I am leaving this letter for now: I am hearing shouts outside my room.

(Continued, June 14th) The newest, and already former, footman dropped an entire tray of tea while serving Mama and Edith, effectively ruining one of the settees. Carson almost had an attack they told me. Once downstairs, Mrs Hughes had to restrain him and stop him from throttling the footman on the spot. Actually, the scene was not all that different from your first visit here. Incidentally, Mama is not as cross as one could have thought. She always hated these settees, and she has struggled about them with Granny for as long as I can remember. I think she is going to make profit of the situation to make _a coup_.

(Back to Dublin, I do not know if asking you to accompany us to the wedding is a fantastic idea or an awful one. However, the appeal of this little trip, even with Edith – I can guilt her into being a lenient chaperon – is strong.)

Do you have your fill of shenanigans and gossip?

With all my love,

Mary

PS: I do not thank you for reminding me about our last night a mere hour before I had to go out and join Granny for lunch. Not at all.

PPS: Speaking of weddings, shouldn't we begin to think about a new date? Given Papa's position about mourning and Matthew's loss, I am afraid that he will not allow anything at Downton before September at the earliest.

**Third letter**

_Downton, June 26__th__, 1919_

Dearest Richard,

The telegram you sent when you left Italy was very reassuring. However, more than a week has gone by, and there is still no news from you. Is everything alright? If you do not have enough time to write, just send another telegram.

The atmosphere at home is even stuffier than ever. Papa is still angry. Granny is still meddling. Everybody is asking me about you and your absence, anxious to discover in your travel plans the symptoms of an ending relationship. It is exhausting.

Yesterday, Papa told us about a letter Matthew sent him, and the whole evening was spent on commenting on Lavinia's ordeal. Obviously, the atmosphere is less than favorable to evoke our own wedding plans right now. I suppose a few words from you would be help me.

I love you,

Mary

_Paris, June 29__th__, 1919_

My dear Mary,

I am so sorry for my prolonged silence. I reached Paris on the 20th, and since this day, I have barely been able to sleep. But it was worth it. I managed to secure interviews with the French minister Clemenceau and with President Wilson as well. The atmosphere here is electric, and from what I gathered from my different meetings, there is a strong feeling of being witness to a true historic moment, for good or for worse. The French are vengeful, the Germans refuse the notion of defeat, we British try to play a role that is not ours to play anymore. In the midst of this chaos, Wilson is willing to enforce his ideals, but I am afraid nobody wants to listen to him. I suppose I got caught up in these events, and, once more, let me tell you how sorry I am for not answering earlier.

The second letter you sent to Milan really helped me to go through the negotiations. Many times, I thought of throwing the towel and get out of the damn city. One night, while walking back to my hotel, I saw a group of _arditi_, as they call themselves, roughing up one man with wooden sticks and forcing him to swallow what I later learnt to be castor oil. Nobody in the street raised a finger, and I am ashamed to admit I did not move a limb either. I am not afraid of a good fist fight, but these men really frightened me. They fed on their own violence. I walked back to the hotel, and sought refuge in the comfort of your sheltered life in Downton.

By the way, your mother is right. Those settees are an abomination and the former footman should have been promoted. If your mother wants, I can introduce her to Charles, my friend from Glasgow. I do not remember if I told you or not, but he is the one who decorated my house in London. Talking about footmen, why do I have the feeling there is bad blood between Carson and the little weasel that acted like a sergeant then came back as a footman?

It pains to read that you have had a hard time at Downton lately. I am going to shorten my stay in Paris. Now that the treaty is signed, my presence here is not as necessary, and the young guns can learn to deal by themselves.

Concerning our wedding plans, I think there are two solutions that depend on your choice and yours only. If you cannot imagine your wedding day anywhere but at Downton, we will have to wait. Would it be possible to negotiate a date around mid-October? Six months would have gone by then. Meanwhile, I would resume my trips to Downton, you could spend some time in London or in Scotland. As far as I am concerned, it would less than in ideal, but still manageable, especially if we can spend some time together the way we used to in London. Then, there is another solution: my family and friends in Scotland would be ecstatic to help and host the wedding. Edinburgh can be lovely in August (unfortunately, Glasgow is absolutely out of the question). I suppose you know what solution has my preference, but, I repeat, the choice is entirely yours.

I will send a telegram as soon as I am back in London.

With all my love,

Richard

PS: The hell with hypocritical decency. Once we are reunited, I'll make love to you all night. I want you so much I'll have the most difficult time containing myself until we're all alone at last. That is, if you still want me.

_Downton, July 1__st__, 1919_

Richard,

Waiting-for-you-stop-Eagerly-stop

Mary


	10. Third interlude part1

So here's the first part of the last interlude, in which I have a little fun with the POVs...

Thank you for reading and reviewing, it's always nice to know that people are enjoying themselves at least a little bit.

And a big thanks to mrstater, as usual!

**THIRD INTERLUDE: Back to normal?**

_Downton, July 4th, 1919_

"Oh Robert, I'm so relieved Matthew has decided to come back to Downton and visit us at last."

"Indeed, my dear."

As he discarded his dressing gown on the chair by Cora's bed, Robert did not hide his own happy smile. To be true, Matthew's return to Yorkshire after weeks of mourning and self-imposed exile in Manchester was the light at the end of the tunnel. The apparently unimportant fact that his heir was supposed to arrive at Downton a day earlier than Mary's insufferable publisher could even be the first stone on the path that would lead the whole family back to normal. If only Sybil could come back to her senses, everything would be perfect.

Just perfect.

Robert joined his wife under the light cover and lay down on the pillow with a satisfied sigh, settling himself in a half-turned position to go on with their customary good night conversation.

"Did you notice Mary's apathy when she announced Richard's visit?" Cora turned to face him, her face suddenly serious.

"Like everyone around the table, I suppose…"

Cora could not hide a fugitive frown of disagreement.

"What is it my dear?" he enquired, not quite knowing how to interpret his wife's hesitation.

"I don't know… It's just that Mary was so adamant she was moving on last May. I guess I'm finding this attitude quite surprising, almost as if…"

"As if…" Robert pressed on anxiously. The idea that there may be an obstacle to the dreamed reunion was bordering on unbearable.

"As if she was downplaying her feelings, or something similar," Cora finally expressed her fears out loud.

"Oh, go on, Cora !" Robert exclaimed, laughing at the incongruity of such an apprehension. "Mary? In love with this man? When she had spent the last years suffering from Matthew's engagement to poor Lavinia? That's preposterous!"

He leaned in and took his wife in a comforting embrace.

"You'll see, Matthew's coming back tomorrow, and all will be forgotten."

Cora settled in his embrace.

"I hope you're right, Robert. I really hope. But don't you remember what you had said about discarded toys which weren't here anymore when you wanted them back?"

* * *

_Downton, July 6th, 1919_

_This was most interesting._

Violet Crawley observed the scene unfolding in front of her attentive eyes like a surgeon's blade cut through skin and muscle.

After months of absence, Matthew had made his reappearance at Downton, at last. Gone was the haunted stare and his rather alarming pale complexion – if she had been in a quipping mood, she would have invoked Bram Stocker – which was a very good sign. The day before, he had accompanied his mother at Cora's invitation to luncheon, accepted another round of formal condolences with his usual dignity, and reclaimed his position as Cousin Matthew under the family's happy scrutiny. A shy, hopeful grin was even exchanged between Cora and Robert when they spied Mary proposing to accompany him to Lavinia's grave. As the once couple made their way to the village under the summer sun – keeping a respectful distance between them, naturally - hoping the nightmare was finally over did not seem so far-fetched a sentiment.

The war was really over, as the newspapers celebrating the peace conference in Paris kept on repeating.

Poor Lavinia had been a good soul, but anyone with a pair of eyes and a functioning brain would have been able to notice that Mathew's longing stares had another recipient entirely.

Mary's publisher had forgotten his fiancée for more than a month, too preoccupied by President Wilson and these talks about a League of Nations, and too anxious to invest in ruined Hungarian and Italian papers.

Her granddaughter's growing outward indifference seemed to indicate that the crisis in May had been that, and nothing more, a passing crisis. Furthermore, in spite of an acute observation during a long walk last Sunday, she had not been able to detect any impatience or longing when Mary had announced that her fiancé would visit Downton in a few days.

There was no passion here, she had concluded, sipping her tea with satisfaction.

If you came to it, the equation was quite simple now, and Violet prided herself on being a problem solver. Her impromptu visit to Matthew had produced no effective result, but it had made some crackles appear in the façade of the great love he supposedly shared with Lavinia. She just needed to better her aim, sharpen her weapons, and wait patiently for the best opportunity to push Mary's true affections to the surface once again. The comedy had lasted far too long for the Dowager's taste.

_Alas!_

Never had she been so off the mark, which was quite vexing, she had to admit to herself. Earlier this afternoon, Sir Richard had finally set foot in Downton for the first time since the funeral, all smiles and dimples, more dashing than ever in his dark suit – at last the man seemed to remember the obligations of proper mourning. As usual, he had missed luncheon, and had begun to blame his lateness on some malfunction in Leicester station.

Heavens, the man was so predictable.

However, much less predictable had been Mary's absence of snappy retort; and the warm smile that brightened her features suddenly had been quite alarming, to say the least. For a moment, the Dowager thought it a rather shallow and understandable reaction to his new, short-cropped haircut and the beard that now covered his cheeks. When her granddaughter began to tease him and accuse him of having ignored his alarm clock once again as she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek that lasted a bit too long to be entirely chaste, Violet could see that the castle in the sky she had begun to build was crumbling even before she had set the first stone. A quick glance around her as she used her cane to sit straighter revealed that she was not the only one mourning the loss of the family's dearest dream, if her daughter-in-law's round, defeated eyes was any indication.

From this moment, everything had gone from bad to worse in a frightening, and almost fascinating way.

As soon as he had finished the tea Carson had offered him, Richard had got up, uttering something stupid about the fine weather and how much staying inside was a pity, and offered his arm to Mary. Violet observed them as they made their way to the village, and she noticed the absence of respectful distance between them with a pang of regret.

Worse than the way they strolled awfully close to each other, the length of their walk had been noticed by everyone. She had gone home to dress and come back to Downton, Cousin Isobel and Matthew had arrived, Robert had just walked downstairs, ready for dinner and fuming at his eldest's new insouciance and uncharacteristic oblivion of common courtesy. They were waiting for Cora and Edith to join them when they heard the couple come in and talk briefly to Carson before hurrying upstairs.

At once, three pairs of eyes had turned to consider Matthew with undisguised pity. Rarely had she witnessed a man retreat so quickly into in his shell. One moment, he was discussing the French's obstinacy about the Ruhr and the absurdity of President Wilson's pretension to force his rather naïve vision on victorious British Empire with Robert, standing straight in his evening wear, glass of champagne in hand. A few seconds later, the stubborn, closed expression they had observed so many times when he was confined to his chair, covered his features once again. It had been one of the rare occurrences when Violet regretted that cruel wit and irony that impregnated her every word: moments like this one made her speechless and unable to offer comfort more often than not.

Now, a few hours later, all the gathered family enjoyed, or tried to in her case, a rather unsettling and unfamiliar dessert – some new American invention, she was sure – and, unable to restrain her natural curiosity in spite of her disappointment, she studied the renewed dynamics around the table with rapt fascination.

_This was most interesting indeed._

"So, you're affirming the League of Nations isn't a threat to our sovereignty, to our right to deal with our foreign affairs freely?" Matthew's harshness was not entirely due to political disagreement, she was sure.

"Almost as much as the House of Commons are a threat to my freedom of speech as a British citizen, I would say," the publisher answered back. "Moreover, if this League of Nations can put an end to the damn secret diplomacy that caused the war, I think it's the best idea in years."

"Ah! You and your lot made your money blaming everything on Germany, then, now that's out of fashion, you follow the wind of Wilson's hollow sermons."

Richard laid his spoon on his plate more forcefully than was necessary, and the Dowager noticed Mary's soothing hand on his tensed arm.

"Am I part of the brand new Ministry of Propaganda?" Richard shot back. "I'd be really thankful if you didn't confuse me with Lord Northcliffe. We sell newspapers; that's the only thing we have in common. And in July 1914, we sang very different tunes, I can tell you."

"So, you're a _pacifist_." The disdain in Matthew's voice was clear like crystal. To him, an injured veteran, this was a synonym of _coward_.

"Yes, I am. If I had been your age in 1914, I wouldn't have volunteered. I wouldn't have volunteered until the draft would have made it impossible for me to avoid the fighting. I'm too individualist to accept the idea of shooting at anyone because I'm told to. If this makes me coward, then a coward I am." The way he set his shoulders, rolling them under the tuxedo, showed that his political opinion did not extend to his social interactions, obviously.

"You cannot deny that President Wilson has an unbearable way of treating the Alliance like a wayward child," Robert interrupted the escalating debate. "We won a long war, a war in which the United States did not really participate until late 1917, and we deserve our share." He tried to side with Matthew and re-orientate the conversation at the same time; his tone indicating his will to remind who the patriarch was.

"Our share?" Richard was staring at her son as if he had grown another head. After more than a year of downplaying his opinions, his sudden political honesty was quite surprising. Although, if she was totally honest, he had expressed his disdain of official propaganda the first time they had ever met. At the time, she had attributed this rather mercenary comment to his obsession with selling papers at any cost. Now, she could see the brutal honesty of their brief exchange.

"What share?" The newspaperman went on animatedly. "North-Eastern France, their richest region, is ruined and must be rebuilt from scratch, literally. I won't even speak of Russia. The Alliance as a whole, and England isn't an exception, is indebted to the United States and other countries like Japan or Argentina. Said countries modernized their economies and infrastructures when we were busy destroying one another in Europe. So what share do you want? Because, unless you're American, there's nothing to share, I'm afraid."

The Dowager barely concealed an amused smile, the first one this day. If her son thought Branson was a poor choice for a son-in-law, what was he thinking of Richard right now? Sybil was marrying an Irish socialist, and a former chauffeur. Mary was marrying a liberal and pacifist Scot, an admirer of President Wilson and a man probably far richer than they would ever be, which added salt to the wound. Nothing would go back to normal now, if something like "normal" ever existed. Violet Crawley was disappointed, but, more than anything, she was getting curious.

_This was getting interesting._

* * *

"I simply cannot believe it!"

Cora stared at her husband as he paced her room. He had ridded himself of his dressing gown, but had not put it back on the chair, where its usual place was. Instead, he kept it in his hand, and the movement of the garment accentuated the angry gestures.

"Robert…"

"Have you noticed how long they stayed out this afternoon? Have you watched how casually he allowed himself to touch her when we went through to the drawing room? Have you heard how cocky he's become? Have you seen how they, they…"

Obviously, her husband had managed to contain himself all day but witnessing the couple passionate embrace after dinner had been the last straw.

Robert was hurt, did what he always did in such cases, he lashed out dramatically.

And cruelly.

"Of course, you cannot be that disappointed. You always were his staunchest supporter! You saw only his money!"

"Robert… I supported him because Matthew made his own choice. I supported him as long as he seemed to be Mary's choice. And I support him now, because he _is_ Mary's choice, obviously, whether I like it or not." Her voice was firm, authoritative almost. By nature and by habits, Cora had grown into an accommodating woman. One did not have much other choice with a mother, a husband and a mother-in-law like hers. However, she never appreciated wrongful accusations, even when they were uttered in grief and anger.

"I just cannot believe it," he repeated more softly, defeated almost.

"Robert, we have to accept the evidence. Mary has every right to love another man than Matthew, and she's in love with Richard now." It was a cruel thing to say, but her husband needed to hear it.

They had to accept this new situation, even if they did not like it.

The perfect marriage that could have solved everything would not happen.

Mary would not inherit Downton.

Cora's money would not go to her grandchildren.

Robert's heir would never be his "son" as well.

At the same time, in spite of her husband's vehement protestations, she was not entirely sure that Mary marrying Richard was such a bad thing. The man was rich, powerful, and could be very helpful if the need arose. To be honest, if O'Brien was to be believed, he already had been.

Most importantly, when he thought nobody was observing him, Richard gazed at Mary with pure admiration and adoration.

"It's just that…"

Robert sat down heavily, unable to finish his sentence. He did not need to.

"Robert…"

Cora sat up from her pillows and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Do you remember what you told me when Matthew first came back with Lavinia in 1916? We had a dream and now it's over, we have to live with it."

"Yes, of course, you're right."

"I might add today that, maybe, it's high time to let them, every one of them, Mary, Matthew, Richard even, live their dreams and not hope for them to live ours. Don't you agree, darling?"


	11. Third interlude part2

****This is the second part of the last interlude. The series has a traditional cricket game, my AU has its rugby game (one, because I prefer the game, by far; second, because I can't understand cricket's rules for the life of me whereas I come from a place where rugby is a religion of some sort).

After this chapter, the fic will be on hiatus for an undetermined while beofre sending the characters to Celtic lands.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Un abrazo para la señora Tater...

**THIRD INTERLUDE: Back to normal?**

_Downton, July 8th, 1919_

Not fast asleep anymore but not totally awake yet, the first thing that Richard noticed was the featherlike caresses on his belly and the pleasurable sensations they elicited. Content to prolong this state of semiconsciousness, he lazily lay back in his pillow, his eyes still shut, a discrete grin forming on his lips.

Two could play that game.

The light touch progressed downwards, following the trail of hair coming down from his navel, confident at first, then growing lighter, more hesitant, stopping at the waist of his pajamas. However, Richard had learnt with dismay then with delight that there were very few things that could keep Mary Crawley away from what she wanted. One finger finally ventured decidedly to the bulge that had formed under the fine, silky fabric, and the exploration went on.

Richard's grin became a full formed smile as he stifled a groan of pleasure provoked by Mary's innocent but merciless teasing.

Unable to maintain the sleeping charade any longer, he sat up to rest on his elbows under the scrutiny of a pair of amused, and aroused, brown eyes.

Without a word, the ghost of a smirk on her own lips, Mary got bolder and her palm replaced her finger.

"Like what you see?" he managed between ragged breath.

"Quite. It's a better view than you falling asleep on me like you did earlier." The teasing in her voice was barely enough to conceal her disappointment. Their reunion two nights ago had been as passionate as he had promised in his letter, and more. However, last night, much to his shame, Richard had not been able to repeat the performance, falling asleep instead, lulled by Mary's caresses and warmth.

"I'm well rested, now. I can make it up to you."

Mary's eyes darkened a little more if it was even possible.

"Or maybe do you prefer to go on with your… exploration?" Richard had to stifle another groan when Mary wrapped her hand around him through the fabric. Instinctively, his own hand joined hers to show her the right rhythm, the right pressure.

"Depends…" Mary teased back, stopping her movements in spite of his protestations. "What do you prefer? Don't you need to get some more rest before this afternoon's game?" She nuzzled his navel before adding with a mischievous smile. "I'd hate to be the reason for a poor performance on the rugby field."

His hand went up to the décolleté of the nightgown he had not managed to divest her from earlier in the night, and made it slip to reveal Mary's shoulder.

"Do you really need to ask, sweetheart?"

He shifted abruptly to roll her on her back. "Don't you worry about me for later today. I've been playing rugby since I was tall enough to run with a ball in hand. Family tradition."

And he proceeded to playfully nuzzle to sensitive skin of her neck and shoulder, making good use of the facial hair that adorned his jaw.

"Did I tell you how much I love your beard?"

"Not in the last two hours." He abandoned her neck to worry her earlobe with his teeth.

"You were asleep." In response, her exploring hand slid into his pajamas.

"Fair enough." He nearly swore against the offending garment that impeded him from caressing her breast freely.

"Now, pipe down and love me." Both her hands worked to remove his nightwear.

"Yes, my dear."

Then Mary's hand wrapped around his naked arousal and coherent thought became overrated.

* * *

"You know, Richard, a few months ago, I would have been convinced that you had decided to play with the commoners just to be able to get back at Matthew…But I would have been wrong, wouldn't I?" Mary inquired, masking a bout of irrational worry behind her usual teasing voice.

In spite of everything, in spite the unbreakable bond Michael's last moments had built between them, in spite of the longing caused by a month-long separation that had prompted her to join him in his guest room the night before, and the night before last, she was afraid that Matthew could still be a sore subject in their conversations, an object of hesitation and defiance, of jealousy and misinterpretation…

The warm-up before the game was about to begin and Richard was adjusting the laces of his boots with practiced gestures. He wore the navy blue jersey reserved for the commoners in this resurrection of the traditional midsummer rugby match that saw the local and mostly aristocratic team – in which her father used to play, as well as Matthew before the war, or the Russells and Edith's one time suitor, sir Anthony – deigning to share a field with a hastily assembled of clerks and footmen and peasants. To the foreign eye, it could have been perceived as a generous, paternalist invitation to transcend the class system for an afternoon; the traditional Servants Ball in Downton shared the same spirit. However, even Mary could tell how hypocritical it was, and she had begun to think that long before she ever met Richard… Indeed, traditionally, the more organized and experienced black and white team literally butchered the navy blue one, and at the end of the day, everybody would return to their homes, the black and white reassured in the order of society, the navy blue passively accepting that football or rugby league were their games, not rugby union.

"You would have been wrong, indeed," Richard answered in a slightly surprised voice. Obviously, the thought had not even occurred to him. "I usually forget about personal matters on the field. It's nothing but a game, you know." He did not finish his sentence, as he suddenly realized the implication Mary was making. "He's playing, for real? After his injury?" Disbelief, and slight worry were obvious in his voice.

"Well, since he has just walked into the field, I suppose he's playing," Mary commented, not knowing how to interpret her fiancé's sudden worries. It was almost as if he feared for Matthew's well-being, which was slightly out-of-character for Richard, to be honest.

"What's his usual post?" he pressed on.

"As if I knew!" she exclaimed. Then she tried to remember past games, before the war, when she secretly admired her cousin's skills at kicking the ball. "He used to wear the letter J…"

"Fly half, then. Even better…"

"Why?"

Richard gestured to the letter on his own back, a G. "Well, I'm a flanker, and it's the flankers' job to make fly-halves miserable, among other things…" He sighed as he prepared to join his ephemeral team for the warm up. "I'll try to be gentle and not forget his back." He took her hand and kissed her lightly before adding, a mischievous smile forming on his lips: "And, to answer your question, I never play with aristocrats; that is a personal rule. I may work with them, obtain a title, buy an estate or even fall in love with a lady…" His kiss on her lips was featherlike. "But I never play rugby with them."

"Speaking of love, it's decided then. We'll announce our wedding plans to the family tonight, won't we?"

Richard, who had jogged along a few paces in his team's direction, stopped and turned around, an eager smile on his face.

"Of course! Nothing like kicking your future father-in-law's arse on the field then announcing your wedding plans with his daughter in a near future in barbaric Scotland to win his favour."

"You sound terribly confident, darling. I know a few proverbs…"

Richard ran to her to whisper in her ear: "Sweetheart, there are two domains in my life in which I fear absolutely nothing. Business and rugby."

"Not humility obviously," she teased back as he jogged away once more.

"Humility is overrated!" he shouted back, waving at her.

* * *

Indeed, Richard never played with aristocrats. That was as simple as that.

He ran to join his fellow forwards who tried to find some coordination for the lineout under Thomas's barked orders. So Barrow was a scrum-half… How fitting. A bit farther, the backs repeated some attack movements while the fly-half and the fullback trained to kick and get the ball. On the other half of the field, the black and white were doing the same, with better precision and organization.

The sun was high and the spirits higher. Shouts and laughs resounded, accompanied by the sound of tackles and kicks. His jersey was a bit worn out but was comfortable. It would be a good afternoon, if only he could get past the deep feeling of absence the scene evoked. There were too many _old warriors_ like himself, Carson or Mary's father, and too many rookies like the sixteen year-old who played scrum-half for the black and white. There were too many players who did not have their place on a field anymore or who had not gained their place yet.

Too many absences.

Too many losses.

When Lord Grantham had spoken of the idea of resurrecting the game for the first time, Richard had almost declined the invitation, even if, for once, he could agree with the Earl's intention to try and go back to normal. He had not played in more than four years, since the beginning of the war, and, above all, Michael's absence was still too fresh. The idea of playing without him was nearly unbearable: the lad had naturally found his place in the London Scottish, the Exiles as they were nicknamed, for which Richard used to play, and had taught them more than one kiwi trick. However, the more he had heard about the conditions of the game, the more his old hostility towards the way the upper-class tended to see rugby as their private playground had resurfaced. And he had enrolled into the blue jersey team.

_Edinburgh, March 16__th__, 1886_

_Richard knew better than expect some change, but he could not help to listen to Mr Hastings' announcement hopefully. He had trained hard the past few weeks, harder than ever, and his marks were among the best in his class, as usual. He had filled both conditions to play next Sunday, hadn't he? He ran faster than McGregor and his tackles were better. He did not lose the ball forward as frequently and even knew how to play with the backs. And he kicked his arse in Latin and Math class. So he had to play, right?_

"_Locks: Bruce and Fitzpatrick. Flankers: Morrison and McGregor. Number eight…"_

_Outraged, Richard started to gather his things, not waiting for Mr Hasting's dismissal._

"_Carlisle!"_

_He had almost reached the door._

"_Carlisle!" the coach barked._

_He stopped dead on his tracks, seething._

"_I don't remember having dismissed anyone. Do you?"_

"_No, sir." It was humiliating._

"_Good. On your way out, you will take the jerseys to the laundry. Understood?"_

_He had no time to waste with damn laundry. He had a Latin exam to revise for. But he could not get expelled from the team. He could not risk being expelled from the school. His parents had made too many sacrifices to get him there: his foolish father believed that working hard at school could get you anywhere…_

"_Yes, sir."_

_His father should stop reading his damn French newspapers. Scotland was no Republic… His comrades' constant jealousy ever since he had entered the school thanks to the grant he obtained with his good results was proof enough of that._

_He had better marks. He was a better flanker. But he still was a kid from Morningside, a "middle" middle-class lad who should be grateful not to be working-class…_

_One day, he would show them all._

The day he had left school with his degree had been the last day he ever played with the upper-class, and he had found in the London Scottish a group of men who shared the same values and frustrations. Most of them were students who were trying their luck outside of Scotland, well conscious of the weight of establishment and the reduced opportunities back home, but who still wanted to have a good time with fellow countrymen. They were a good bunch.

Playing for the commoners' team during this game was only natural, given Richard's history. The fact he got to wear a navy blue jersey – the color of the Exiles, the color of the Scottish national team as well – was an added bonus: there was no way he could accept to wear a white jersey, he had his pride!

As he tried to coordinate the lineout with Barrow one more time, he took a glance at the other team.

Matthew Crawley was talking to the other backs in his jersey marked with a J.

Richard hoped he could restrain his natural tendency that made him a living nightmare for the other team's fly-half if he wanted to remain a welcomed guest at Downton at the end of the day. Lord Grantham would not be as understanding as Mary…

* * *

Richard Carlisle was a poison.

Pure and simple.

He was always on the wrong side of the ruck, always trying to perturb the organization of their mauls, always playing with the other sides' nerves.

A hand on the ball here, a smack on their young scrum-half's head there…

In fact, he played as he lived: cheating, breaking the rules and not knowing where his place was. And, as in real life, it worked, Robert had to concede. The game had stabilized around their twenty-two, one more time, a position the black and white were not accustomed to. The score was quite unusual as well, a mere 9-6 in their favor, and ten minutes to play. He walked for the lineout with difficulty because of the cramps in his left leg. He had not played in ten years, and it showed. Panting, he watched Richard as he was the last to get up from the group that had finished their course outside the field. Barrow almost had found an opening after a scrum and rushed along the line. Fortunately, Matthew had just managed to catch the former footman's ankle, just enough to make him stumble, which had bought the team some time to reach the navy blue scrum-half. Jeffrey Russell, a young cousin of Billy, had stolen the ball from Thomas who, fortunately, had forgotten his partners on his right, and, for a second, Robert thought this counter-attack would permit them to score a try, at last. However, a blond, rather bloody flanker had come back from God knows where, followed the ball Jeffrey had addressed to the fullback, propelled it outside the field with a kick, and managed to get into a short scuffle with said fullback, one more time.

Richard Carlisle was a poison who did not know how to give up. He had run, tackled, stolen the ball countless times, and he was still there. Damn.

As the lineout formed, he observed his future son-in-law with a new sort of appreciation. His grimace and the way he clutched his ribs showed that the multiple stampings he suffered during the game to punish him for his wrongful placement in the rucks were beginning to take their toll. However, he was still on his feet, and still dangerous. He got stomped on, but he gave as good as he got: Henry Cromwell, a fellow officer during the Boer War, and his bloody nose were a proof of Richard's ability to get his revenge behind the referee's back, in the middle of scrum or a ruck.

He cheated, and provoked, and cheated some more. He got on everyone's nerves – and the six points the navy blue had scored were the consequence of these actions.

Robert stole another glance at Richard. His face was calm and his eyes already focused on their scrum-half's movements, intent on deciphering their strategy for this defensive lineout. In spite of the cramps, the Earl smiled ruefully. Carlisle knew how to play rugby, and embraced it wholly, the ugly and the beautiful. Too bad he had been born in Scotland where middle-class men had no chance to reach the national team, despite all their qualities, especially in the 1890's. England was not as conservative as far as rugby was concerned – an exception – and Richard could have had a shot at wearing the jersey with the Rose. In Wales, his chances would have been even better. In France, it would have been a sure thing – all rugby players were commoners in that country!

The referee whistled to resume the game. Jeffrey aimed and threw the ball at Robert. As a lock, it was his role to get it. He lifted his arms, stepped back and prepared to jump to catch it. Alas, as soon as the ball reached his hands, he felt a shoulder knocking him aside while an ascending elbow grazed his face. A second later, he fell flat on his back.

A bit hazy, he saw the letter G on a navy blue jersey running away, escaping a first tackle before confronting Matthew. A mean fend to the torso propelled the fly-half on his backside. Fortunately, the last action had slowed him down and two more backs managed to grip him. But he was still standing. With a strange movement of the arm behind his back, he gave the ball to Barrow who only had to run to mark a try.

What kind of pass was that?

9-11 for the navy blue…

Damn! The man knew his game.

* * *

An amused smile formed on Mary's lips when the referee whistled the end of an "historic" game. For the first time since her childhood, the navy blue had won the traditional summer game. Thomas was running everywhere, his arms raised, euphoric. She knew from Anna how bitter the former footman had been over this annual game in the past. She had also guessed that the first post war months had been quite cruel to Thomas, who finally had returned sheepishly to his former job as a footman. Carson's celebration was much more discrete, more conformed to the man's standing, yet his exhausted but bright smile was telling. He was too respectful of the establishment to nourish resentment towards the comedy this yearly game could be. However it did not mean he would not enjoy saying to her father "Good game, your Lordship" for once.

And Richard… Richard was a mess, and he still had not gotten up from the place the final blow of the whistle had found him.

On the ground.

Lying on his back.

Trying to catch his breath.

Who wouldn't be after having propelled the other team's A jersey – an awfully big, round man she did not know, one of her father's acquaintances – out of the field, a few feet away from his team's in goal?

She was beginning to worry, half tempted to join him on the field, a place where no woman was allowed, when she saw him refuse Thomas' hand and began to sit up on his own, a big smile on his tired face. Limping a little, massaging his right side, Richard joined the navy blue celebration.

Everything was alright.

Well, almost.

In her peripheral vision, she glimpsed Matthew as he left the field on his own, clearly bothered.

Something was wrong.

However, contrary to what she would have done a few months before, Mary did not follow him immediately and, more important, automatically. It was not her place anymore. Actually, if she excepted the month between his proposal and the break up back in 1914, it never had been her place, in spite of her family's ill-concealed wishes.

So she let him go, and resumed her observation of the post-game celebration just in time to see her father offering a sincere hand to Richard, his face showing a sort of newfound – she was hesitant to name it – respect. Men were a strange species, and men practicing rugby a stranger species. An hour spent on the field trying to hurt each other seemed to have generated more progress between them than two years of regular visits.

The same could not be said for Matthew, who was still brooding on his own, the expression on his face a dolorous reminiscence of the one she associated with the many heartbreaks he had caused her over the years.

His paleness

His quivering chin

His eyes bright with unshed tears

All of these used to have the ability to cut her deep, to hurt her like nothing else could.

Not anymore.

It was an unexpected, sudden realization. A final liberation.

The wedding was well on its way. Yet, until this very moment, Mary still had had this little, gnawing reservation. Of course she loved Richard, deeply, completely, so much that a month of separation had been barely bearable. The affectionate letters had not been enough; she had missed him, the sound of his voice, the feeling of his skin. The only problem was that she had fallen for him outside of Downton, far from Matthew who had gone back to Manchester to lick his wounds. To be honest, deep down, she had dreaded her first reunion with her cousin, she had feared how a single glance could have put an end to her recovery process.

What if she was not completely healed? What if the marriage was just a way to escape from Matthew's ghost? How would she react to his grief or his moving on?

She had her definite answer now, and it was a good feeling, albeit a bit selfish.

In the middle of the celebration, Richard caught her eyes from a distance, and gave her one of his intoxicating smiles, a rare one that reached his eyes, reserved for his few loved ones.

He was happy like a mischievous teenager after a schoolboy prank.

Leaving her future husband to his teammates, she strode purposefully toward Matthew, to give him a piece of her mind, as a _cousin_.

* * *

Matthew could not move from the spot where he had collapsed when the referee had signaled the end of the game. He knew he should get up and do what was expected, join his team and congratulate the winning side. This was how it was done. Like his father used to repeat, rugby was a thug game played by gentlemen, and when everything was over, there was no place for resentment and bitterness, only common celebration. Matthew himself never really shared his father's passion for rugby, but he had followed then man's steps faithfully nonetheless, at school and at university. You could not be Reginald Crawley's son and not play rugby. It was what was expected, even if Matthew always preferred athletics in general and hurdles in particular.

When he had first arrived at Downton back in 1912, he had followed the same pattern. Apparently, you could not be a Crawley and not play rugby. So he had claimed a spot in the local team and participated to the yearly comedy that was the traditional summer game. It was what was expected.

So why was he barely able to contain his bitterness?

Matthew did not know what had been most humiliating, Richard obviously avoiding him from the very start of the game – as if Mary had asked her current fiancé to go _gently_ on her former fiancé – or the mean fend that had propelled Matthew on his backside and had concluded their first and last direct encounter of the game. This short confrontation had been the perfect synthesis of both men's attitude toward the game: Richard played rugby as if his life was on the line whereas Matthew did what was expected of him.

Actually, it resumed their respective attitude toward life in general and a certain young woman in particular. Richard Carlisle always fought to the bitter end, inelegantly most of time, but efficiently when Matthew had let his sense of property and dignity get the better of him.

In the end, Richard was marrying Mary in spite of not being an honorable man when Matthew had lost everything because he had tried his hardest to be honorable.

Matthew tore his eyes away from the celebrating men on the field and looked for his cousin. She was standing on the side of the field, observing the aftermath of the game with her typical tilt of the head that revealed her amusement.

She was beautiful, like the first day he had met her.

She was different, though, and he could not put his finger on what had changed during his latest absence from Downton. There was quietness to her that was not here before. Her affected outward assurance had been replaced by discrete self-confidence. Mary had become a stunning woman, and it had not been for his sake.

From afar, he saw her notice him, brooding in his corner. As she walked to him decidedly, her face did not wear the familiar empathic and tender expression that had helped him go through so much during the war.

It hurt.

Terribly.

He had lost her, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Worse than that, he had lost her admiration. More than seeing her arriving late from her walk outside with Richard, more than the stolen gestures of affection he had witnessed, Matthew had been deeply shocked by her doubtful stare when he had argued about the just war Britain had fought since 1914, by her disagreeing frown when he had declared solemnly that all the sacrifices had been necessary.

He was not her hero anymore, he was no white knight at all, and the masquerade he had elaborated to keep his sanity through everything had crumbled down. For two days, he had barely kept it together, and he had clung to the idea that the game could help to gain back a bit of his destroyed self-esteem.

To keep the nightmares at bay.

What a fool he had been, always trying to appear as the family's hero. A tricking bastard had put an end to this comedy in the most spectacular way.

There was no denying it anymore. Something was wrong with him.

Very wrong.

And the worst part was he did not know what to do to get out the hole he had buried himself into.

"Matthew?" Mary's voice was firm, with only a hint of worry. When had she gained so much calm authority?

He could not get himself to look up.

"You're not well."

It was a statement and it was not about the game. It probably was not about _them _either.

A sigh.

"What can we do to help?"

_We, _not _I,_ like when he had been stuck in the damn hospital bed.

The _family_, not _Mary_.

"I hate to be that blunt, Matthew, but you're alive. Many men do not have that chance."

Deep sorrow appeared in her voice and a hint of annoyance which would have imperceptible to anyone not knowing her as well as he did. Matthew winced at her words in spite of his efforts, not because of their cold, harsh reality, but because of what they implied. He was not the only soldier she had grieved about anymore.

"Let us help. What can we do?"

_Us _ again, when he wanted _me_. _Let me help._

"You're not a lost cause, Matthew," Mary pressed on. "You still have your life in front of you. You can't live for the dead."

Never had she seemed so far away, not even when he had first met her, when he had been nothing but a stubborn and very middle-class solicitor, when she had appeared like an unreachable aristocratic young woman.

A hand went to his shoulder.

"And you have a family. You _are_ family, and as far as I am concerned, marrying Richard will never change that."

Matthew looked up brusquely and considered her through unshed tears.

"That's decided then?" he managed with a quivering voice.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Mid-August, in Edinburgh, something simple," she said softly, as if her subdued tone could soften the blow. "But, I repeat, it changes nothing. You need help, and you can be sure you will get it, want it or not."

Matthew could not help a self-deprecating snort.

"So you want to save me in spite of myself?"

"Basically, yes."

Her self-confident smile did not leave room for argument.

Richard Carlisle was one lucky bastard. The man perfectly knew where he was standing, probably did not have many nightmares, and he was marrying Mary.

One lucky bastard, indeed.


	12. Dublin and Edinburgh : Of disagreements

So, after a rather long hiatus, here's a new chapter of _The healing process_. It's the beginning of a second part that will take you in Ireland then Scotland, for a couple of weddings.

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing.

And a special thanks to MrsTater who definitely is my Gemini cricket ;-)

**PART TWO: Dublin and Edinburgh **

**Chapter one: Of disagreements... **

**Dublin, July 20th, 1919**

A lifetime ago, when Mary had invited Richard to Downton for the very first time, Aunt Rosamund had complained about how he had read his own papers during the whole journey from London. The biting irony in Aunt Rosamund's voice had expressed what her words had politely concealed, that the cunning woman thought this new suitor was a pompous fool. Three years later, Mary had to admit that this habit of his _was_ totally irksome. Of course, she knew now that his tendency to ignore everybody and everything while reading was not strictly down to self-satisfaction but to his ability to shut out the whole world around him whenever he set his eyes on written words, be it a newspaper, a book, a menu at the restaurant or the safety instructions on the ferry. Those were the times when she had to resist the sudden urge to hit him with something blunt, and the journey from Downton to Dublin had provided plenty, much to Edith's undisguised amusement, which had added salt to the wound. For the hundredth time since the three of them had left Yorkshire, Mary addressed a displeased stare at her sister who was observing the scene in front of her – that was to say Richard practicing his second favorite occupation during a journey: settling against her shoulder and snoring softly – with too much delight. After a few seconds of insistent glaring, Mary had to accept that no amount of silent threat would erase the smug expression from Edith's lips and she decided to focus her attention on the approaching coastline.

It was a pleasant summer afternoon and the trio had decided to stay on deck in order to enjoy the July sun. From afar, the green coast made a sharp contrast with the blue, almost shiny water. The scenery that slowly unfolded in front her dreamy examination of the horizon confirmed that the metaphoric name of Emerald Island was not usurped by the country she had heard so much about, in the distance, and was about to discover, knowing nothing about it except the fact this was the place where her little sister had decided to spend the rest of her life. How transformed would they find Sybil after only a few months in this rebellious land?

Deciding not to let this nagging interrogation spoil the last moments of this nice day at sea, Mary tilted her face to enjoy the salty wind that was making a mess of her coif. Every now and then, Mary or Edith had to raise a hand to keep their hat in the right place or tuck away a rebellious strand of hair. Richard, who did not possess the same of almost religious respect for propriety and well breeding, had already taken care of his own hat before dozing off and let it rest on his knee, secured by the loose pressure of his hand. This was a small gesture, a small breach of etiquette Richard was accustomed to, and Mary had to smile at the idea that the man who bought the wrong tweed for his first visit to Downton would never disappear totally in spite of her best effort at grooming him. At the same time, the whole sight was endearing as it epitomized who Richard was and always would be, a man who would always chose practicality over propriety.

In spite of herself, Mary let a timid smile form on her own lips. As promised, Granny had convinced Papa to let her and Edith come to Sybil's wedding under Richard's protection. Very soon, she would be reunited with her little sister, and see for herself whether _Tom_ kept his promise to make Sybil happy or not. And, maybe, if Mary found the courage, they would even talk about those recent events that had changed her own world. If someone could understand, it was her rebellious sister who was about to marry the former _chauffeur_…

"Dublin!" a loud voice with a strange, heavy accent announced, rousing Richard effectively.

"I suppose this is the moment when I have to stand up and deal with our luggage," he commented with a voice still raspy from his impromptu nap, making a show of his ability to stretch lazily without behaving like some lower-class semaphore. The movement, which made him look like a cat, started from a slight, rolling movement of the neck that reached his shoulder then his back. Hours spent in trains and endless reunions had taught him to relax in the most inconspicuous ways, Mary was sure.

"You are the one who insisted we ought to travel _light_," Mary snapped back a little more strongly than intended. She understood Richard's reasoning – to which her father had adhered as well – but the idea of traveling without Anna's help was a bit overwhelming. After all, her faithful maid and friend had accompanied during her regular visits to London last May.

Yet, Richard had thought it would be better to try and not show off their social status too much during their stay in Ireland, as a form of respect towards the Bransons, as a form of prudence as well.

The newspaperman shrugged as a form of silent answer while he smoothed his tousled hair back before putting his hat on.

"As we said before, Anna will wait for us in Edinburgh. In the meantime, I'm sure Gareth's staff will give you great satisfaction, to you, and to Edith as well, even if they're quite reduced, as he told me."

Gareth O'Connell was a professor at Dublin medical university, and an old friend of Richard, from their student days in Glasgow, apparently, and it had been decided they would stay at his house in Dublin.

"What surprises me most in this story is that you're willing to go without a valet, Richard," Edith teased him, her eyes never leaving his face, studying his mere reactions. "Are you really willing to settle for another man's valet?"

Mary resisted to rolling her own eyes. Of course, Edith was still a bit wary about Richard and the whole situation, in spite of her growing amusement.

"His butler and valet and footman, a bit like Moseley, in fact," Richard corrected with a faint smile. "And, as far as white ties and other morning coats are concerned, anyone, including another man's valet, is better than me left on my own with these hellish garments. That's one of the perks of becoming rich: you get the fancy clothes and the people who worry about them in your place at the same time."

"Except when they give you the wrong tweed."

The occasion was too tempting to let it pass, and Mary joined her sister in the teasing.

"Except when they give me the wrong tweed, indeed," Richard admitted with mock sheepishness before counter-attacking. "Wait until we're in Scotland, both of you, and we'll see if you're that fluent in the etiquette of tartans and clans."

"Before getting to that, we need our luggage for a wedding in Dublin," Mary reminded the task at hand, not without mentally noting she would need a book or anything that could help her explore this side of Scottish tradition she had always happily ignored, even during the family's annual trip to the Flintshire's castle in the Highlands.

"Yes, Ma'am."

Richard tilted his hat mischievously and went to retrieve their luggage.

* * *

Sybil and her husband-to-be waited impatiently for the arrival of the "Yorkshire delegation", as Tom's mother had jokingly described it when they had announced Mary's and Edith's attendance to the wedding. The poor woman had tried to hide how overwhelmed she was at the idea of entertaining such a kind of guests, and how relieved she had been when Sybil had added that her sisters were to stay with some acquaintances of Sir Richard. On the contrary, Sybil had not been able to hide from Tom how disappointed she felt at the idea that Mary and Edith would not make any effort to blend in her new life in Ireland. Strangely enough, her fiancé seemed to be more understanding of the situation.

"If I can accept this, maybe you should, too," he had commented two days ago, kissing her teasingly on the nose.

"Maybe I can't accept the idea of Mary settling down for this man after everything that happened last spring," she had admitted with a sad frown.

Had not her eldest sister learnt anything from the whole ordeal? Was she really willing to let the love of her life slip through her fingers? Sybil had always believed that there was more to Mary than what she let on – the way she had helped Matthew after his injury had been the defining evidence for the youngest Crawley sister – and Sybil felt irrationally betrayed by this decision to marry the arrogant and shallow newspaperman.

"Maybe…" Tom's own clipped smile had revealed his unsaid feelings about the situation. With Sir Richard in the picture, there was no possible way that Mary would accept _the former chauffeur_ as a member of the family. The self-made man would never let her.

Sybil went on examining the crowd walking down the gangway from the boat to the dock, waiting for the sight of Anna and any valets' silhouettes fussing around the luggage. Her sisters would be there anytime soon, and, for the first time since she first arrived in Ireland, a wave of self-consciousness threatened to overwhelm her. What would they think of her plain dress and new, practical haircut? How would she react to their judgmental stares? Lost in her thoughts, and expecting a large, formal party to emerge from the crowds of travelers, she did not notice the trio walking to them until Mary's voice greeted them with her familiar, carefully polite tones.

"Sybil, Tom, it's a pleasure to see you again."

For a second, Mary's uncharacteristic warmth of tone, accompanied by the image of a gentleman-not a porter or a servant-struggling with luggage made Sybil hope that something had changed at Downton, finally. Was it Matthew with them? The man's hat concealed his face and the idea of Sir Richard carrying luggage was simply preposterous.

"Mary, Edith." She accepted her sisters' embrace. "I'm so happy you managed to come to Ireland," she answered, struggling with her emotions. It had only been three months, and her life in Dublin was as exciting and fulfilling as she had expected, but she had missed her family dearly. Until this moment, she had not realized how much. "It means so much…"

_Acceptance. Much needed acceptance._

"Lady Sybil, it's a pleasure to meet you again." Sir Richard's hand went to his hat in a polite salute. "Br… Mr. Branson," she heard him catch himself in time before shaking Tom's hand awkwardly.

Sybil anxiously observed Mary's features. There was no slight frown or furrowed brow to indicate her sister's annoyance at the man's near misstep. As she had feared almost three years ago when Sir Richard had first walked into Downton, she had lost Mary to the newspaperman's glittering mirages. She had hoped her eldest sister would be her best advocate and would assist, advise her in rebuilding the shattered bridges Tom and she had left behind last spring. Lady Mary Crawley would have done that, Sybil was sure, but there was no way that Lady Mary Carlisle would do such a thing.

"Sir Richard, thank you for coming," she heard Tom's own awkward greeting from afar. How could Tom ever be able to forget he had driven Sir Richard around, even once Sybil's family accepted him, as she was certain they would in the end?

"Thank you," she repeated, barely managing to hide her disappointed frown, not able to stare at Mary. Sybil did not need to see her eldest's cold expression, the expression she had always believed to be nothing but a façade. All the pleasure and nostalgia the sight of her sisters had awakened was gone now.

"If you're not too tired, my mother would be very happy to see you coming for tea," Tom went on with the initial plan.

"We don't want to intrude," Mary protested gently. "And we can't arrive too late at Richard's friend's house."

Of course, they wouldn't. Why would they want to have some tea in a modest cottage when they could stay at one of Dublin's finest houses?

"Naturally," Sybil replied more bitterly than intended. "Mingling for the wedding is already too much, isn't it Sir Richard?"

"Sybil…" Tom's cautious voice and calming hand at her elbow stopped her from being too harsh. Her fiancé knew how much she disliked the man: he had been the witness of many of her rants in the garage at Downton.

"Not really," came Richard's nonchalant answer as he lit a cigarette. "As an adopted Glaswegian, I got used to the papists' company, you know. I'm just more anxious to be done with the luggage."

After a thoughtful pause and a deep breath, Sir Richard added, not caring to hide the annoyance in his voice: "And there's absolutely no way we can fit all of us, and the luggage inside the antiquity over there."

Beside her, Tom whitened at the veiled insult. Of course, the newspaperman was right. They had agreed Tom would take the sisters and their escort to his mother's then would drive back to the port and take Anna, the valet and the luggage to Richard's friend's later – that was why left luggage existed, after all. But there was no need to be that condescending.

_Not at all._

Once more, she was more than happy of her decision to live in the real world.

* * *

The old Ford T Tom had told them he had borrowed from a cousin to greet them bounced rather than rolled through the rather shabby suburbs of Dublin, shaking its occupants and stopping any effort at conversation.

Thanks to a few chosen words, the joyful family reunion had quickly turned into a shameful mess. Apparently very conscious of the awkwardness his simple presence in Dublin had created, Richard had decided to make himself scarce for the immediate future. He would take a taxi to his friend's house and bring the luggage with him whereas she and Mary would go for tea at Tom's mother's house. The newspaperman would join them later. Hopefully he would have managed to clear his head in the meantime.

Edith sighed in discouragement.

The man could really be a hot head, and behave like a perfect fool whenever he felt aggressed. She would have never told Mary her silent apprehension, but, since the beginning of their journey, Edith had had the nagging intuition that Richard would not be welcomed with opened arms by their sister. To be honest, she had not totally warmed to the man yet, and his latest, brutal return to his arrogant habits earlier at the port confirmed her in this prudent opinion of his character. However, she had been able to witness Mary's quiet, newfound happiness and Richard's more endearing sides.

Sybil had not.

Here and there, crumbling walls or recent gunshot impacts were the ever present signs of the local poverty and the current political tensions. Not for the first time since she had set foot on Irish soil, Edith wondered why Sybil had chosen such a life. A quick glance at her passing surroundings revealed the signs of a harsh reality, thousands of miles away from their sheltered existence at Downton. Was it Sybil's love for Tom that helped her to embrace this radical change? This very idea made Edith think of some form of blindness, and she feared for her sister.

What if her little sister suddenly discovered that Tom's love was not enough to bear this life? Would she be able to go back to their family? Would their father welcome her back?

As they drove along modest cottages and well-kept vegetable gardens – a sure sign they had entered a much less distraught neighborhood – another hypothesis came to her mind. Maybe it was because Sybil had been ready for such a change for a long time, that she had been ready to recognize then accept her love for Branson. If this was the case, there was no need to worry for the future in Dublin.

On the other hand, it meant the whole family would have to work hard to rebuild the bridges, beginning with their father, and Richard.

Like any neo-convert, Sybil would never take the first step, assured as she was in her opinions and new life, and they would need to be the ones to take this step, and the next one, and the next after that. Attending the wedding was only the first of many difficult ones to come if they did not want their family to explode because of Sybil's and Mary's choices for their respective husbands.

If Mary had chosen Matthew as everybody had wished she would, things would have been much easier. However, that was not the case, and they would have to deal with this reality, not their unrealized dreams.

Moreover, for all his flaws, Richard was quite a reliable man. Not a nice one, but a good one, in his own twisted way. That should be enough.

* * *

"I behaved like an arse, didn't I?" Richard wondered aloud as soon as he heard the click of the door behind him.

As Mary had promised in her letters during his trip around Europe, Edith proved to be a very liberal chaperon, or a blissfully ignorant one.

Earlier in the evening, he and Gareth had driven to the Bransons' cottage to pick up Mary and her sister. Richard had been glad to find the Crawley girls, the three of them, in high spirits, even if his mere presence had contributed to the return of previous awkwardness and tensions. The presence of a millionaire in her humble cottage had overwhelmed Mrs Branson, even more than the company of three daughters of an Earl. And two pointed stares had made made it very clear that he was just politely tolerated there. On the other hand, Richard had seen enough Saint Patricks and Holy Marys representations to last him a lifetime. As a Presbyterian child, he had been raised to despise those manifestation of idolatry. As an atheist man, contempt had been replaced by simple allergy. After that, dinner at their host's house had been an oasis of stimulating conversation, and, for the last hour, he had been able to relax and sit in the armchair by the open window in his room, enjoying the nightly fresh air as he read the local latest news.

_IRA raid against British bank in Dublin._

_Member of British Fiscal Administration killed during a visit in Galway._

_Miners strike in Munster._

They really had walked into a powder keg, and he could not wait to get the hell out of here. His being a renowned and rather vocal opponent of British imperialism sheltered him a little, but that was not the fact for Mary and Edith. The worries and objections Gareth had expressed when they had spoken on the phone before the start of the journey had only fed Richard's own anguish, so much that he had only needed the merest trigger to lash out at the Bransons.

_Papists. Antiquity. _

_What a bloody idiot._

"Honestly?" Mary's voice resounded behind him as she rested her hands on his shoulders and began a gentle massage. "I can't imagine a worse introduction."

Richard smiled to himself in spite of the seriousness of their current conversation. It was a good thing the wedding was near in the future: they obviously were more comfortable with each other than what was morally acceptable for an engaged couple. When he thought about the first months of their engagement, he could not help but wonder at Mary's eagerness to join him in his room back at Downton or here at his friend's house in Dublin, for light banter, serious conversation or more.

"Can't you?"

"Papists? Really? For a second, I thought Papa was here, and not you." For emphasis, and a little revenge, she pressed harder against the knot at the base of his neck.

"That hurt," he complained mildly.

"Stop being so tense."

"You need to improve your bedside manner…"

"Says the man who slapped one of his workers to wake him up from his stupor…"

"Touché," he admitted sheepishly. "By the way, how did you find my room? Did you coerce Gareth's housemaid to show you around the place?" Very few things were more pleasant than teasing Mary about how his bad but practical manners were highly contagious.

"I didn't even need to. I know for a fact that you're a night owl and there's only one room with light in the whole house. Elementary, Dr. Watson."

"Well done, Sherlock..." Richard resisted the urge to lie back, close his eyes and enjoy her ministrations. "More seriously, I was thinking of not going to the wedding."

"Why?" Mary's hands went still.

"Because I'm not sure to hold my tongue if provoked, and I don't want to spoil Sybil's big day," he explained, more hurt than he cared to admit by the youngest Crawley's blatant rejection.

"Don't even think about it," Mary replied sharply, punctuating her words with a gentle but firm pressure on his shoulders. "We're getting married next month. Your place is at my sister's wedding. That's all."

"Well, I've a little bit more experience with siblings who live far away than you, and believe me when I say it's important to preserve your bond. You can't afford a fight, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Sybil's not in New Zealand, but, considering the current situation in Ireland, she might as well be. The distance is already huge. Don't widen it because of me, that's all." Richard sighed heavily. He did not know how to convey his thoughts without sounding too much like a martyr.

"Might I say that what works for you and your sister may not work for Sybil and me? It goes both ways: I accept her husband-to-be, and I expect she will accept mine." Mary took the newspaper from his hands and sat on his lap, her fingers removing his already loosened tie and working on the shirt buttons. "Trust me, I just need to find a moment to talk with her, alone. That's how we have always functioned since our childhood." Her hands pulled the lapels of the shirt from the trousers and reached for Richard's belt.

"You must be right."

"I am," she whispered before claiming his lips.

"You do realize that our wedding night will have nothing special if we continue this trend?" he managed between slow kisses, as he let his hand brush her naked legs under the silky nightgown.

"Oh, the simple fact that you won't have to throw me out of bed at ungodly hours anymore and that we won't have to use these rubber things will make it special enough, don't you think?"

"Tired of it already? Don't you want more time to adjust to married life before starting a family?" He tried not to sound too eager.

"I want to let nature decide."

"Sounds like a plan."


	13. Dublin and Edinburgh : and resolution

After a loooong hiatus, here's chapter 13. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Thanks for reading ad reviewing.

And many, many thanks to MrsTater who's a wonderful source of support and inspiration.

**Dublin, July 22****nd****, 1919**

_Her little sister was getting married._

It was hard to believe such thing when, not so long ago, Sybil wore her hair down and waited impatiently for her first season.

"Here. Don't move…"

With expert hands Mary did not know she even possessed, she adjusted the veil on Sybil's hair. Obviously, observing Anna's hands in the mirror for years whenever the maid put the pins and the needles in her mistress' hair to create sophisticated coifs had taught her a thing or two.

"There. You look lovely, darling."

Mary took a step back to admire Sybil, more touched by the sight of her sister in the simple, but elegant, white gown than she would have admitted out loud. The material was modest – obviously, Sybil had not wished to spend the money that their father had provided for her new life lavishly – but the imitation of a modern cut, the low waist barely underlined by a loose belt and the geometrical embroideries along the neckline were a poignant reminiscence of the third Crawley daughter's passion for fashion.

"You really think so?"

Sybil's voice was shy, almost inaudible.

"Angelic and stunning at the same time," Edith added her own praises enthusiastically, proudly clutching her little sister's hand between hers.

Mary hid her own smile at that comment. For once, she and Edith did agree on something.

"You are a marvelous bride, darling," Mary confirmed, barely able to conceal her own pride as she adjusted the veil one last time, checked the bouquet, fussed around as an older sister would naturally do.

_Or a mother…_

"But not too marvelous, I hope?"

And there it was, this inevitable insecurity that Sybil had tried to hide behind her passionate defense of her new life in Dublin. Since their arrival in Ireland two days ago, Mary and Edith had observed their little sister carefully, spying for any sign of discomfort, examining unspoken communication, watching Sybil's new surroundings closely. Indeed, both sisters never got along, never shared anything but their common interest in the little one's well-being.

Of course, Sybil had been adamant in her enthusiasm. Ever since they had arrived in Dublin, _Tom_ had made her very happy, she said. Her new life was difficult at times but was so rewarding, she could not see herself go back to her old ways in Downton, she affirmed. The Branson family was getting used to her, was learning to trust her, she told her sister.

If you listened to what Sybil said, everything was perfect.

_The enthusiasm of a convert. _That was how Edith had expressed her thoughts the night before when, back at their host's house, they had shared their impressions with Richard, who had diplomatically disappeared for the day and accompanied his friend Gareth to a game of Gaelic football. However, as the three sisters got to spend more time together, Mary had noticed some cracks in the blissful façade.

Sybil's antagonism as far as Richard was concerned had gotten worse and worse. His presence at the post had been considered as an insult and his absence the day before the wedding as a slight against the Bransons. He did not, he could not understand the Irish plight, and attending a game of Gaelic football was another proof of his hypocrisy. _How can you bring such a man to my wedding? How can you think of marrying him? _Sybil had finally protested, her voice full of unspoken anguish, as if Mary's choice threatened her own path in life. Wisely, the oldest Crawley daughter had chosen not to reply. Maybe Richard had not been wrong when he had suggested making himself scarce till the end of this trip in Dublin. His social status made the Bransons wary of him, obviously, and Sybil's outward defiance tended to worsen their attitude towards Mary's fiancé.

_The fiancé. The press baron. The Londoner. The rich British dog._ That was what they said _sotto voce_, when they thought Mary was not listening.

Fortunately, Sybil seemed better this morning as her sisters helped her into her wedding gown. However, a nostalgic smile here and a sad sigh there had confirmed the eldest Crawley daughter in her opinion. Moreover, Sybil's choice for her gown betrayed how difficult it was for her to be a Earl's daughter trying to fit in a world that was not hers. Of course, the way Tom's mother smiled around her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, the barely veiled fondness in the oldest brother Kieran's eyes, the ease with which Sybil talked and acted around them proved how the passionate young woman had succeeded in conquering her surely reticent in-laws in a few weeks, thanks to her natural kindness and determination, Mary was sure.

Still, such a transition had to be hard on the young woman. In spite of everything she said, Sybil could not help but suffer a little from her voluntary estrangement with her own family.

"Just the right amount of perfection," Edith tried to reassure their sister after a long, thoughtful silence.

"Beautiful, but not too much. Tom is going to be absolutely stunned," Mary followed her lead.

Both sisters had wanted to reassure Sybil, to remind her implicitly of the reason of her estrangement. She had left Downton for the love of Tom Branson; it was worth it, in the end. However, the future bride's quivering bottom lip revealed that their reassurance had missed the goal entirely.

"What's wrong, Sybil darling?" she asked in soothing voice, reaching for her sister's chin, trying to meet her eyes.

"Nothing," the youngest Crawley daughter answered stubbornly.

"It _is_ your big day," Edith insisted. "It's normal to feel nervous. You sacrificed so much to be here..."

_There would be no coming back this time._

"No! It is what I want!" Sybil exclaimed vehemently. "It… it's just…"

"Just… what?" Mary probed, hoping that her sister was not getting cold feet in the last minute. _This_ would be the worst insult for the Bransons.

"I wish Mama was here…" the future bride finally admitted shamefully.

How could they have forgotten such an important matter? How could Mama have forgotten this?

Mary searched for Edith's eyes frantically, but her sister's confusion and reddening cheeks showed that she would not be of any help on the matter. Worse, Edith decided it was high time to check on the flower girls – Tom's nieces – one last time and walked out of the room, mumbling her feeble excuses, abandoning her sisters.

If someone knew that Mary was more or less qualified for the task, it was Edith.

_My sister is a slut. _That was what she had said, so long ago. In another life.

Mary took a deep fortifying breath. She was the eldest daughter, after all. She had to take care of her little sister till the moment she would walk out of the church as Tom Branson's bride. And, there was no way Sybil could despise Richard more than she already did, wasn't it?

"I understand that you miss Mama, today of all days," she started prudently, her voice low, appeasing, as she cradled Sybil's face in her hand with the same old, familiar gesture with which she used to sooth the little one's sorrows over a ruined favorite doll or a dead pet. "If I can be of any help, please don't hesitate…"

Sybil closed her eyes stubbornly, the way she did as a eight-year-old when she refused the notion of a bird flying out of its cage.

"How could you be of any help?" she replied at last, her eyes candid, obviously refusing the concept of Mary being of any help on the matter, refusing the implication of such a notion.

Mary almost smiled at that. Of course, contrary to Edith, Sybil never knew about Pamuk. She never knew about the chief reason behind her hesitation to respond favorably to Matthew's proposal, the main explanation for her engagement with Richard. In Sybil's eyes, she was still a proper young woman, probably too proud for her own good, who had left the love of her life slip between her fingers, who did not know a thing about what married life implied.

Mary pondered her next answer carefully. If coming clean about Pamuk was absolutely out of the question – after all, the tell of a lover dying in your bed was not probably an encouraging example for a future bride – she was still reticent to voice out loud how her relationship to Richard had changed over the last months.

It was their secret, and she did not want to share it. Yet, in their mother's absence, she had a duty to Sybil…

"Because the wedding in August will be nothing more than a technicality…" she admitted at last, her cheeks reddening a little, hoping Sybil would catch her meaning.

The way her sister tore herself away from the embrace told her she had understood perfectly.

"How could you?" she spat. Defiance and contempt and disappointment filled Sybil's eyes as she considered her oldest sister like a broken idol.

"How could I?" Mary parroted with a sad smile as she remembered the events that had led to this definitive fall from grace. _This_ was not only hers to share. "Because it felt right. Because we had discovered how much we needed each other. Because I love him."

Obviously, this was not the answer Sybil expected.

"You love him?" It was her turn to parrot. "How?"

"I don't know. I could say he was there when Matthew was not. I could tell you how being with him freed me in a way I wasn't able to imagine. I could pretend I enjoy his social position and his money. The fact is, I simply can't imagine living without him anymore, in spite of all his flaws. We make a good team."

"What about Matthew?" Sybil was a romantic to the core.

"He hurt me too deeply."

"Are you happy?" the young woman asked dubiously.

"Yes, I am."

"Even…" Sybil's cheeks reddened a bit.

"Have you seen him?"

The small frown on her sister's lips revealed Mary that blond, tall, older Scots were not exactly Sybil's type.

"Richard makes me very happy, in all the ways that count."

"Does it hurt?"

_Well, especially when your lover died on you…_

"It can be uncomfortable. It can be untidy, and you'll feel a bit of embarrassment at one point of another," Mary recognized, thinking of her own reactions to Pamuk's expert hands, above all, to Richard's loving ministrations. "But, when you're lucky enough to be with the man you love, it's wonderful, you'll see," she went on, her own cheeks reddening. At that moment, Mary decided she only would have boys. It was such an awkward situation!

However, the tension seemed to leave Sybil's clenched jaw and shoulders.

"Why didn't you wait?"

Of course, she would try to understand…

"Believe me, the occasion was special enough, Sybil darling," she answered vaguely. How was it possible that she would want to forget and remember forever the very same night? "Now, are you ready?"

An hesitant but impatient smile formed on Sybil's lips.

"Yes, let's go."

Following Mary as she led her outside the small room she had occupied for the last few weeks, Sybil felt confident once more. As awkward as the moment had been, her older sister's unexpected confession and warmth had dispelled the last shreds of fear and hesitation that had been gnawing at her for the last days.

She may have burnt some bridges in order to be able to live her life with Tom as she wished, but she was not all alone. Her sisters were here in Dublin, for her, and would be there in the future if need be, Sybil was sure of it now. Contrary to what she had feared from the moment she saw sir Richard struggling with the luggage at the port, his presence in Mary's life would not be an obstacle to an eventual reconciliation with her family;she had not lost her strongest ally to some ambitious and pompous fool, even if it was hard to see what Mary saw in the man when she could have had Matthew.

Careful not to stumble in the stairs – for some reason, her knees felt weak and trembled slightly – Sybil walked down slowly, her eyes fixed on a carpet that had seen better days, taking in the reactions as Tom's family discovered her dress. She recognized the now familiar clapping of hands his mother made to express her enthusiasm, soon followed by the no less familiar "Dear me!" Sybil's heart swelled in her chest: the good woman's acceptance meant so much to her. Kieran, who would be driving her to the church, let out an admiring whistle between his teeth.

Still, something, or rather _someone_ was missing. Sybil's heart constricted a little as she realized that Mary could not replace this someone even though she had stood in for their mama minutes before. Instead, she met a pair of dark blue eyes under raised eyebrows. Richard's half smile possessed a warmth Sybil would have never suspected, and she was relieved that instead of a morning suit he wore a grey pinstriped business suit. The cut was modern and expensive, but Sybil appreciated his effort to blend in for her big day. Yet, how much came from his own initiative and how much came from Mary's influence, she did not know.

"Ready to go?" Sybil heard Kieran asking in his thick brogue. She'd only just begun to decipher his accent, and hqd to work harder to understand the older members of the family.

"I am."

From that moment, the rest of the day melted into a kaleidoscope of images and sounds which Sybil would recall forever: the feeling of stepping into the church on her own, like the independent young woman she was, the image of Tom's contagious smile and wide eyes as he beheld his bride in her wedding gown, the sound of exchanged vows, the taste of his lips, the applause and cheering as they walked out as husband and wife, the warm congratulations, the sensation of Tom's hand on her back, holding her a little bit closer than what was appropriate, as they opened the dance...

Hours later, the whirlwind had come to a pause and Sybil was content to stroll lazily, hand in hand with her husband, around the little garden of the neighborhood hall the Bransons had rented for the occasion. Inside, laughter and music and drunken shouts indicated that the ball was still in full swing. Sybil sighed contently as she leaned a little bit into Tom, eager to feel his warmth, curious about what would happen later this night. Where she came from, weddings were such a formal business, a recreation of some fairytale, with a magnificient gown and men dapper in their top hats and morning coats. She had dreamed of such a wedding, before. However, she would not trade her imperfect but so joyous wedding for anything else. People she knew, barely recognized or did not know at all came and went, drinking to the health and happiness of the couple, making profit of the music and the food to have a good time… It was so lively, so real!

In her peripheral vision, Sybil recognized Mary's silhouette – unmistakable among the Irish popular crowd in spite of the feeble street lighting – as her sister walked out the hall and joined a man sitting quietly by himself on a bench.

_Richard._

THanksfully, he had behaved himself and even had successfully mingled with the Bransons. His fluent Gaelic had impressed Tom's uncles, and his uncanny tolerance to alcohol had bought him Kieran's respect. This was not much, but it was enough for a wedding day.

"What are you doing?" she heard Mary ask as she joined her fiancé on the bench, putting her hand on his thigh in the most familiar, intimate and inappropriate way.

"Hiding from Branson's bloody brother. The man isn't entirely normal, I swear... Or they spiked my drinks..." There was a little slur in his speech that betrayed the effects of the drinking contest in which Kieran had cornered the_ Scot_.

"Poor thing…" Mary trailed off, smoothing a strand of blond hair back in place before leaning for a long kiss to which Richard responded by cupping her breast.

_The wedding in August will be nothing more than a technicality._

Sybil felt a bit like a voyeur, and almost led Tom back inside. However, her new husband seemed too engrossed by the skin of her neck, his light kisses sending shivers along her spine, and she let him led her to an unoccupied bench at the other side of the garden, protected by the shadow of an old willow. For a while, nothing more existed than Tom's lips on hers, his timid but tender caresses, the sense of anticipation building inside her. The fiddle and pipe sounded so far away when Tom's tentative finger traced her neckline, his eyes darker than usual.

It was still early in the evening, but maybe it was the right moment for the bride and groom to excuse themselves… Then Sybil remembered they had not cut the wedding cake, yet. Reining her own frustration in, she tried to distract Tom from her earlobe, with much difficulty.

"Come on love, just a little bit more…" she heard him plead, and granted him his wish, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Why did they have so many obligations? Why couldn't they go now?

However, the Earl's daughter in Sybil called her back to her senses. She could not be surprised in such a position with her husband. They had host duties to fulfill before they would be free to go. They could not keep on ignoring their guests…

"Go on! English don't reel!"

Richard's dubious exclamation broke the spell definitely. Cheeks reddening at the idea they had let themselves carried away in public, Sybil and her husband sprang from the bench, reestablishing an acceptable distance between them and walking toward the arguing couple.

"_I_ do reel, and have been told in Duneagle I was good at it, _more than once_," Mary shot back, standing her ground.

"Nothing more than vain flattery. _Prove it._"

Sybil was outraged on her sister's behalf. Mary was an excellent dancer, and she had proved her love for reeling repeatedly during the traditional family stay in the Highlands. Warm fondness engulfed her as she remembered one endless night, during a ghillies ball in 1911. Patrick was alive then, not drowned into the cold water of the Atlantic. Sybil did not even know a man like Tom existed. Richard was probably busy with his rising empire... For a second, she was tempted to defend her sister when she and Tom finally joined Mary and her fiancé. A sharp retort was about to leave her lips when she noticed the teasing smile, and the spark of curiosity and desire in Richard's eyes.

"If your little contest with Kieran had not challenged your sense of equilibrium, I would prove it gladly on the spot," Mary snapped back, disengaging herself from Richard's embrace and standing up.

"Not too drunk to dance."

Richard stood up as well, his hands in his pockets. He stood only inches from Mary and did not touch her, visibly content to tower above her, forcing her to look up to keep on challenging him. In return, Mary raised a stubborn chin and matched her fiancé step for step. They were so engrossed in their banter they had not noticed Sybil's presence nor Tom's.

Inside, the fiddle and the pipe began a series of joyful chords welcomed by a loud cheer from the dancers.

"Shall we?" Richard challenged Mary once more, getting out of his jacket and loosening the knot of his tie, before he offered his hand.

And they were gone, bickering at each other as they walked into the hall and joined the dancing crowd.

Sybil and Tom stood in the garden, not sure how to interpret the scene they had just witnessed, looking at each other disbelievingly.

"What a pair they make," Tom mumbled, playing with Sybil's ring finger.

_They were fighting… for fun?_

_Was it what Mary saw in Richard?_

_Was it what her sister meant when she had told they made a good team?_

Sybil let out a sigh. Who was she to criticize an unlikely match? She had wanted Mary to accept her unusual choice, but she had refused to return the same courtesy as far as her sister was concerned.

"Shall we join them?" Tom's question interrupted her line of thought, effectively bringing her back to the reality of her own wedding.

"Why not? We have all the time in the world… Let's enjoy this night with our guests."

The whirlwind started again full of music and laughter. Glasses of beer and whisky clanged together in happy cheers and drunken voices accompanied the musicians. At one time, a cake was cut and shared while another round of toasts wished all the happiness in the world for the bride and groom. Mary, Edith and Sybil danced together, for the first time in years. Kieran invited the bride, and nearly crushed her feet. Tom reclaimed his wife and made her spin in his arms at the end of breathtaking reel. In her peripheral vision, Sybil could see the improbable image of a delighted Mary spinning in the strong arms of her fiancé. Later in the night, Kieran collapsed on his chair, snoring loudly, much to his wife's dismay. Richard, who had rolled up his sleeves and drunk another half of a bottle of whisky, accepted Tom's dancing challenge without a trace of hesitation. Nobody won, but both men provoked loud cheers as they elaborated more and more challenging steps, until they stumbled to the ground, breathless, laughing, as if one had never driven the other around. Then another reel began, and Mary entered the dance, challenging her already tired fiancé, savoring her inevitable victory with the smile of the cat that ate the canary.

And the last dancers turned and circled at the sound of the fiddle again and again, until it was time for Sybil and her husband to say their goodbye and start their life together. They managed to slip out outside unnoticed, only accompanied by Mary, Edith and Richard. Kieran had sobered up a bit, and was waiting for them by the car.

Sybil accepted her sisters' warm embrace.

"I'm so happy for you," Edith whispered, her voice slightly trembling.

"Promise me to be happy," Mary told her, always the commanding older sister, even now.

Richard awkwardly took her by the shoulders. His half smile was worth a thousand words, and it was enough.

Sybil was about to step into the waiting car when Richard cleared his throat and gave her an envelope.

"Obviously, you're most welcome in Edinburgh next month," he mumbled without meeting her eyes.

Sybil turned around abruptly to consider Mary, speechless.

"I'm not getting married without you around," her older sister spoke firmly.

"When did you…?"

"Bought 'em two weeks ago," Richard explained, shrugging carelessly.

_Impossible…_

"But, what about Papa?"

"My home, my rules. And Lord Grantham doesn't need to know until the very last minute," Richard winked at her. Obviously, the normally controlled man had had one too many drinks.

_A good team, indeed._

"Now go," Edith concluded. "Your husband is waiting for you."

Assured of this unexpected support, Sybil stepped into the car, into the waiting arms of her husband.

_Her new life was about to begin_.


	14. Dublin and Edinburgh Climate disturbance

So here we go with a new chapter. The ending is getting closer...

Thanks for reading and reviewing! And more thanks to MrsTater for her always helpful comments...

**Chapter two: Of colds and lochs**

_Edinburgh, July 30th, 1919_

_Rain, rain, more rain and even more rain. And unseasonably cold weather, too. And wind, the kind of wind that chilled you to the bones and left you shivering long after you had sought refuge in a small café._

For the last few days, dark umbrellas dominated the streets, and passerby wore heavy coats and grim expressions. Mary frowned, too, deep in concentration to avoid an ungraceful fall on the slippery cobbled streets of Edinburgh. Where were Richard and his steady footsteps when she needed them? A furtive glance at Anna and the focused way she slalomed between puddles and treacherous cobblestones revealed that the maid did not feel very at ease in this strange place either. Around them, people came and went, muttering at the splashing cars, lamenting the damn weather, oblivious to the two lost women.

Mary sighed in frustration. They had walked up and down the Royal Mile twice in search of Richard, her feet were torturing her and she could feel the telltale sign of a cold building in her sinuses. For goodness' sake! She was supposed to get married in two weeks; she just could not attend her own wedding sniffling and sneezing, could she? The longer she waited outside, exposed to the elements, screening the gathering crowd for Richard's silhouette, the more probable this unlikely and ridiculous scenario became. Granny's biting words were already resounding in Mary's ears, and it did not take a great deal of imagination to conjure Aunt Rosamund's unmistakable raised eyebrow. Why had she agreed to join Richard in town to watch this parade? And, more importantly, where had he disappeared?

_It was all his fault._

"Meet me around eleven at the kirk. I know a good place where you can watch the parade without getting drenched." That was what Richard said this morning before leaving for his tailor appointment. Usually, such late fitting appointments were the bride's prerogative, but Richard apparently wanted to outbid his fiancée even in the area of fashion. From what he said, this was something he could not have done in London, for some reason. Wasn't the mystery around the bride's dress also a woman's prerogative, though? The worst in this whole situation was not this pseudo mystery – actually, Mary was quite certain Richard did not hide anything and did not intend to – but the fact he did not feel the need to explain himself, as if everything he had done or said since they arrived at Edinburgh was evident.

As if she was supposed to understand everything his uncle Liam said, especially after two glasses of whisky.

As if she had been born in Edinburgh and knew her way around the coves in Old Town and the Georgian streets in New Town the way he did.

As if she knew what he meant when he told her "Meet me at the kirk."

This was the wrong tweed debacle all over again, with their roles reversed. Richard was the one in his natural habitat, and she was the fish out of the water.

Rarely in her life Mary had felt so out of place. It was not her first time in Scotland – her family usually spent a good deal of August at Duneagle castle – but she had to admit it was the first time she had to live among Scots, and the experience was quite different. The way they talked sounded strange. What they had for breakfast tasted strange. The Georgian houses in New Town looked falsely familiar. And winter had invited itself in the middle of summer!

"Once or twice as a lad I saw snow in August," Richard had commented the day before.

Of course, his family had been very welcoming, apart from a muttered snide, defiant remark here and there; and his father had guided them proudly during their visit of the castle on their first day in town – the only sunny day so far – showing off his story-teller's talents as he evoked the Stuart kings, the Stone of Destiny and St Margaret under his son's amused, but attentive, stare. However, the very next day, her fiancé had excused himself – he needed to go to the tailor's then check a few things at the _kirk_ – and told her to meet him on Princes Street later in the afternoon, leaving Mary and Anna to discover the city and struggle with the weather on their own. The day after that, they had a meeting with the minister who was supposed to marry them – which almost degenerated into a religious dispute when said minister sneered at her membership of the Church of England. For a moment, Mary had thought they would never get married, especially when Richard threatened the minister – a good friend from school apparently – of a few broken ribs if he went on with this line of questioning.

The rest of the week had gone by in a similar fashion, the weather getting wintrier and wintrier by the hour, Richard appearing and disappearing all day long. Of course, to be honest, the fact they were stqying on opposite sides of the city did not help. Richard stayed with his father in Morningside and she and Anna had been sent to Uncle Liam's house, on Calton Hill. Indeed, Mary had learned very soon that Mark Carlisle and his son were the black sheep of the family as far as religion was concerned, and there was no way that Mark's sister and her husband, who was an influential minister, would allow an unmarried couple to reside in the same house. The fact that Mary was Church of England only added fuel to the fire.

"There's a reason why I went to Glasgow as soon as I could, and why my sister went literally to the other side of the world…" Richard had explained the day before, when they had managed to spend some time alone at his father's house. "They can be quite intransigent in their beliefs, and overwhelming, but once we're married, you'll be family. Church of England or not."

_Well, not only his fault, then…_

But it was frustrating, and exhausting. The bad weather did not help, and the fact that Richard obviously overestimated her ability to cope with a strange city and a new family worsened the whole situation. It was a bit too much all at once, and she found she missed home, even more when her mother told her on the phone about the nice summer in Yorkshire and the picnic some of the staff had organized by a nearby lake that had put Carson into a frenzy.

"Anna," she spoke at last, frowning as she noticed her toes were getting wet. "Where did Richard say we would meet?"

"By the kirk, my lady. I'm sorry, I'm as lost as you are."

Mary sighed, once again, contemplating the gothic tower of Saint Giles cathedral.

_High Kirk._

For the first time in weeks, she almost missed Matthew's chivalry. Her first love's attentions could be a bit patronizing, bothering at times even, but they were reassuring. Richard, on the other hand, saw her as a strong woman, which was a priceless compliment from a man like him, but it also meant he could be quite oblivious of her limitations, like now.

"What are _ye_ doing there?"

Richard's voice resounded at last. Since they had arrived in Edinburgh, he tended to slip back to his brogue more and more frequently. If Mary was not exhausted and unnerved, she would find this light accent very endearing.

"Waiting for you, what do you think?" she snapped back angrily.

"Why here? It's High Kirk. I told you to meet me at Tron Kirk, the Presbyterian church. This is a _cathedral_. I've been running up and down the street for the last half-hour searching for you."

"We've been doing the same!"

"I told youto wait for me, not run around a place you barely know!"

Richard looked at her as if she had grown a second head. It was getting ridiculous. They would not fight about such a silly thing, would they? The crowd around them pressed more and more on the pavement, waiting eagerly for the parade in spite of the heavy rain. In the background, bagpipes and drums resounded from the castle. Richard surveyed their surroundings, looking for _something_.

"Listen, darling, I feel this parade idea may not be the best thing…" Mary started prudently. The pressure in her sinuses had worsened, and she getting a headache.

"Mmmh…"

"Richard! Listen to me!"

"This damn wind," he only muttered and took off his coat to wrap it around Mary's shivering shoulders. "You're freezing, both of you. Let's go somewhere warm." With that, Richard steered the young women away from the street, into the nearest tea shop.

A loud clamor rose from the crowd to cheer the parading pipe bands.

The arm around Mary's shoulders was warm, and a well-known fragrance, a mix of tobacco and _cologne_, filled her nostrils as she wrapped the coat tighter around her.

The wind was still chilling, but the sun deigned to make a timid reappearance, at last. Not for the first time since they had arrived in Edinburgh, Richard gritted his teeth, paying a distracted attention to the familiar sight of the castle dominating New Town. After the morning debacle, a frozen and drenched Anna had gone home, looking as if she seriously considered of asking for a raise for weatherly hazards, whereas he and Mary had retreated to the park bordering Princes Street. Richard did not like this part of the city as much as Old Town, but it did possess the advantage of offering some shelter from the wind. As soon as the first rays of light had pierced from the metallic clouds, walking crowds had emerged from the houses and cafés to enjoy one of the odd sunny afternoons this awful summer had to offer.

"They say it's been the coldest month of July for a good thirty years," Richard's father had commented the day before. "Mary's family really wants to travel up North? Your cousin Neil told me they had five centimeters of snow last week. It didn't last, but still…"

Richard muttered under his breath when he noticed that the bench, one of the few bathed in sunlight at this hour of the day, to which they were walking hand in hand had been claimed by a chattering trio of old ladies. It was a damn coalition, the weather, his family, the minister, the old ladies, the idiotic tailor who had switched Richard's measurements with his father's, everything…

Suddenly, irrational dread gripped him, as it regularly did these past few days. What if this was nothing but a huge mistake.

Surely a hasty, snowy wedding in the middle of August, in a faraway city, among hostile people who considered her as some kind of heretic was not the marriage Mary had dreamed about. There would be no Downton for her, none of that quiet, uneventful life she was used to. On the material front, Richard was sure he could offer his wife a better life than what she had known since her birth. However, the life he was about to offer her was quite the opposite of uneventful. Political dinners and social gatherings would be their obligations. His busy schedule would give the tempo of their lives, in spite of how much he was willing to work on that front. The places he liked most, where he was able to rest and relax were harsh places characterized by a climate that would make weather in Yorkshire pass as tropical. In spite of all his efforts to hide it behind a façade of good, policed manners, he was still a Scottish hardened lad at the core, unable to stop himself to call a cat, a cat, or a _bastard_ as he had described the maid's illegitimate son much to his future in-laws chagrin. The way he had totally forgotten about how Mary could feel some understandable uneasiness in the city of his childhood was the last, undeniable proof of their deep differences. In some way, the gap between them was as large as the one between Sybil and her husband. Religion, education, values, everything separated them, and Richard's money and title were nothing more than a _trompe-l'oeil_. His hard work, his stubbornness, his sense of innovation and sometimes his cynicism had brought him where he was now.

A self-made man, that was who he was, and he was proud of it; a self-made man marrying an Earl's daughter, and suddenly it did not seem such a good idea anymore.

If you added all the things that had gone down between them during their volatile engagement, the fact that Matthew would always be a part of their lives, unlike any usual former suitor...

"You seem very pensive, darling..." Mary's voice interrupted his current line of thoughts.

"Just fed up the damn weather, like everybody in town, I suppose." Richard took the easy way out, cowardly.

A perfect raised eyebrow showed him he was only fooling himself.

At that moment, Richard hated himself, for his cowardice, for his doubts, for being on the verge of probably hurting her the way Crawley used to do...

"Aren't you afraid?" Richard blurted out finally.

"About what?" Mary considered him coolly. They stood facing each other in the middle of the park, oblivious to the other passers-by who throwing odd glances at the couple that had stopped to argue right in the middle of the path.

"I don't know... My jealousy, my frantic life, my less than stellar behavior... Of having regrets one day..."

"Richard..."

"I mean, you wanted Downton so much," he went on, ignoring her interruption.

"Richard!"

"What?" he asked testily. Was she listening to him at all?

"You're rambling, darling," Mary commented playfully, smoothing the lapels of his coat. "It isn't because your aunt wants to believe we're an innocent engaged couple that we have to think like one. Don't you think it's a bit too late for that kind of interrogation? Don't you think I didn't wonder the same things before... you know..."

For once in his life, Richard Carlisle was speechless.

"To be honest with you, it's because I've been afraid of being happy for so long, because I wavered so much that I lost Matthew. Of course I dread the day when I meet Matthew again after my inevitable first big quarrel with you. Of course I have doubts and fears, especially when I'm regarded like a dangerous heretic by your aunt every morning. And some part of me will always miss home, and will nag you so that we pay regular visits to Downton."

God, he loved her, her natural strength, her elegant assurance... If only he was a man able to convey his deeper feelings through spoken words! Richard never had been a man of great declarations, and he felt trapped within the walls of his natural reserve and inhibition.

"The thing is, I loved Matthew, with all my heart." As if to soften the blow, Mary took a step closer to Richard, and adjusted an imaginary wrinkle on his tie. "But it doesn't mean I was blind to his many flaws," she admitted, her eyes fixed on Richard tie-pin, before meeting his eyes at last. "I just forgot them when he was around, and even more when he was away. He was part of a dream, a dream where I would have been the Countess of Grantham. A figment of the imagination…" Both released a deep breath. "To be honest, you're not the man I dreamed about, the life you offer me is not the one I fantasized about. And you're far from perfect, as this morning's debacle proved it. But you're real, you're there and you're my imperfect teammate."

"Even with the probability of a snowy wedding in the middle of August and a whole family of nationalist bigots?"

"Yes," Mary answered firmly, never leaving his eyes. "And don't you dare have doubts anymore. That's my prerogative, not yours. You're the stubborn one, and I'm the wavering one, remember that."

She punctuated each last word of her tirade with a light tap on his sternum, effectively freeing him from the tightening in his chest.

"Yes, my dear."

"For a man who built his empire on words, you're awfully tongue-tied…"

Always trust Lady Mary Crawley to scratch where it itched.

"You're eloquent enough for both of us, sweetheart," Richard deadpanned as new dark clouds covered the timid sun. Rain was coming very soon, again. "Let's go before you catch a cold."

He took Mary's hand and led her through the park and up the stairs to get a taxi on Princes Street. Up on the hill that dominated New Town, a reduced patch of blue sky still crowned the castle, bathing it in yellow light. Richard smiled as he motioned Mary to have a glimpse at the ephemeral rainbow above the bridge. His smile grew wider when he noticed the expression of contained wonder on her face. Edinburgh really could be an enchanting place for a wedding, well, if snow refrained from inviting itself the day of the wedding.

A taxi stopped in front of them when the first heavy raindrops began to fall. Mary and Richard had barely taken their seats when the pouring resumed. Richard sighed as he gave the address to the chauffeur. Was it too much to ask for an hour or two of respite from the elements on the fifteenth of August? More importantly, when had he become such a foolish romantic? This line of thought was not like him at all... Richard shook his head in disbelief. He really had got much more than he had bargained for since this first evening at Cliveden. He always had prided himself in being a logical man, and here he was, praying for good weather for the day of his wedding...

_A fool in love._

A tug on his sleeve draw his attention back to the street as Mary asked aloud about the half-finished pseudo Parthenon on the hill the taxi was passing. Happy to oblige and play the guide, Richard scooted closer than was proper and began to explain the history of the monuments on Calton Hill, secretly indulging in the scent of her perfume and the press of her shoulder against his chest.


	15. Dublin and Edinburgh : Colds and lochs

So we're almost at the end of this fic, since next chapter will be the last one. Thank you all for reading and reviewing this story, for being patient with the more than irregular updates.

Last but not least, a big, big thanks you to MrsTater: without her constant "nagging", this story would been finished much, much later...

_Duneagle, August 5th, 1919_

If such things were possible, dinners at Duneagle were even more formal affairs than at Downton. The first year of her marriage to Robert, before love invited itself unexpectedly into have been a strategic union, when doubts and nostalgia and sadness were her most common companions, Cora had felt the worst difficulties in adapting to her new family's impossible standards of living.

Day after day, she had worked on her accent, to make the last shred of America disappear from her voice. She had learnt the family's history, making it hers, forcing herself to forget her own roots in the process. Most of all, she had absorbed values. At times, the process of transformation had almost been too heavy a burden to bear, and only he warm letters she received from America had been her lifeline.

Her salvation from a stuffy marriage and a stuffier family.

The initial few days of her first stay at Duneagle had almost been the last straw. As the first notes announcing the piper's arrival in the dining room resounded, already deafening even if the man had not stepped into the room yet, Cora remembered her past feeling of sheer panic as she had discovered the imposing grey castle, the weight of a tradition older even than Downton's plunging its roots in remote ages that were so strange to a young American like her. Then, the idea that the dark castle had been built at a time when her own land was only occupied by nomadic tribes of Indians had been quite overwhelming, and still was in a sense.

However, she still remembered this first stay at Duneagle so fondly. After all, in spite of the ever-present tradition and the horrid trophies and suits of armor, it had been in this very castle that the foundations of a loving marriage had been built. Robert's parents had declined the invitation – the long travel up North was becoming too much of a taxing effort for the aging Earl – and for the first since their rather awkward honeymoon in Tuscany, Cora had been able to spend some time just with her husband, to be truly alone with him…

Almost three decades later, when the piper stepped into the dining room, wearing his uniform complete with the kilt and the tam, proudly wearing the colors of clan McDonald – if she had understood Shrimpy's explanations correctly – she could not help to share a tender and complicit gaze with her husband who cringed at the first note, obviously fighting the ungentlemanly urge to plug his ears.

Robert loved the Highlands, the scenery, the hunting, the lochs and mountains, but he did not like the pipers.

He never did.

As usual, discreet smirks around the table revealed their Scottish hosts' unspoken mirth at the English cousins' embarrassed but polite attitude. Year after year, the scenario was the same, and the actors' reactions as carefully scripted as in a play. Robert cringed. The Dowager rolled her eyes. Edith and Mary's eyes shone with unspoken amusement – for once, the rival sisters danced to the same tune.

This year, though, the script had been slightly altered, and not in a way the family had dreamt so much about. Sir Richard Carlisle sat beside Mary, not Matthew Crawley.

However, even if Mary's future husband was not the heir to the title, their dear cousin Matthew, Cora could not help but feel relieved at the idea that her daughter would be getting married ten days from now. Indeed, this day, Mary's soon-to-be husband was officially presented to the rest of the family, a moment Cora had anxiously waited for since she had helped her eldest daughter to carry a dead man's body along the corridors of Downton, since the first rumors about the scandal had reached Downton, from her cousin's mouth to her mother-in-law's ears.

Said mother-in-law still had not made her peace with this change of bridesgroom, as revealed by the constant questioning she had subjected the couple to since she had stepped down the train this afternoon. Cora watched the old woman in horror as she resumed her barrage of inquiries that only been momentarily interrupted by the main course.

"Sir Richard? Could you explain something to an old English woman?"

This was not good at all.

"Only if I can, Lady Grantham," he answered politely, trying to hide his growing annoyance.

He was sitting between Mary and Cora, and the tension in his shoulders was visible through his coat.

"I see you're wearing a tartan from the clan MacDonald, but I don't believe your family is from the North…"

"You're absolutely right, Lady Grantham. If we believe the genealogies recreated at the end of the past century, the Carlisles are part of the Bruce clan. One of my uncles who teaches at the University of Edinburgh worked quite a lot on that particular topic, and would strangle himself should he see me right now," Richard replied with a sigh. "The problem is that my family here at Inverness isn't as traditional, so I didn't think to bring my kilt. As a result, I had to borrow one my nephews'." A rare, boyish, almost self-conscious smile formed on his tired face.

It made sense, but the Dowager was not a woman to accept defeat easily – Cora had witnessed it many times – and counterattacked immediately.

"On an unrelated note, rarely have I seen a couple about to be married in such a miserable state. Are you sure you feel alright, sir Richard? You barely ate and drank at all tonight. Or have you forgotten your ancestral roots so much you cannot stand a traditional Scottish meal? It's one thing to adapt a somewhat recent folklore to your need, but another to despise an old tradition entirely."

The Dowager looked like the cat that ate the canary as she smiled around the brim of her wine glass. To be honest, sir Richard's face was quite pale, ashen even, and the piper's exhibition had the newspaperman close his eyes in pain. Flashes of a fateful dinner months ago came back to Cora's mind.

_Lavinia_.

"Lady Grantham, since we arrived in Edinburgh, we've had more than our share of the many ways of preparing lamb, haggis and salmon," he answered, his voice as careful as always, a little bit more, even. Tilting his head toward Mary, who had barely touched her own plate, he went on, his most commercial smile plastered on his face: "Superficial as we are, we'd rather avoid some late modifications to our wedding outfits."

"As if an ill bride would not spoil the party…"

"Granny, ten days are more than enough to recover from a simple cold." Mary's nasally tones and red eyes belied her declaration somewhat. Cora had expected many things – a fight, a change of heart leading to a cancellation of the wedding – but not her daughter afflicted with a cold a mere ten days from the ceremony.

"With his weather?"

"That's why we're heading South three days from now. The climate of the West coast is warmer and usually sunnier."

"Without a chaperone?" Cousin Susan wondered with barely veiled indignation. The approaching wedding was not enough to restore Mary's reputation in her eyes.

"With my father. I want to show Mary a castle I've been restoring for the last ten years or so," Richard answered patiently, as if he was speaking to a child.

The whitening of their cousin's face, and the tightening of the Dowager's thin lips showed that the unspoken insult had been received loud and clear.

"Is this Eilean Donan?" Shrimpy asked helpfully, anxious to reestablish a more civil conversation.

Always the pacifier.

"Yes, it is, Lord Flintshire."

"You've started from scratch or almost!" Shrimpy exclaimed with enthusiasm.

"The foundations weren't totally blown up by the explosion, so there's solid ground to work on, unlike Urquhart."

"And there's Skye nearby. Do you hunt?"

The inevitable question.

"Not really, but I am an alpinist. And I sail."

"Of course you do, you're part a Dunbar after all."

A hint of bitterness filled Shrimpy's voice. More than once, the Crawleys had heard him complain about this family of wealthy fishermen – sir Richard's grandfather had been one of the first to own several boats – and their political aspirations. When Mary's engagement had been announced officialy, the MacClares had even lamented about how Carlisle's newspapers had been such a great help to put Gareth Dunbar in the municipal council of Inverness.

"If you want, and if the weather is nice, I can take you on the Caledonian Canal on the seventh."

"You have a boat here?"

In spite of all the local rivalries, the perspective of a cruise weighed more in the balance than political shenanigans. After all, Shrimpy was a professional politician, and Richard swam with the sharks for a living.

"Yes. It would be nice to stretch her sails a little bit."

"But, I told Cora we would have a picnic in the glen?" Susan protested. Their cousin did not like any change of plans.

"We can stop by Uhrqhart and have a picnic by the loch," Richard amended.

"That's an excellent idea! It's decided then!"

Cora turned to her husband with a pointed stare. At last, Richard seemed to have gained an ally in the family, or even two, if young Rose's bright smile was any indication.

* * *

For as long as Mary could remember, the ghillies Ball at Duneagle always had been the highlight of the Crawleys' stay, just like the stag hunting had been the high point of their holidays for her Papa. Before the tragedy of _Titanic_, she, Edith and Patrick would reel with their cousins, a rare instant when the sisters accepted to share a moment, whereas little Sybil and Rose would try to reproduce their elders' elaborate steps. Yet, this evening, she could not indulge in this favorite activity and was stuck by her Granny's side with a stubborn cold that made her sniffle and sneeze in a most unladylike manner. As she had feared the week before, the unseasonably cold weather in Edinburgh had taken its toll, and the scenario of a sneezing bride became more and more probable.

In her peripheral vision, Edith twirled and turned with a distant cousin of the McClares, her smile radiant. For once, her sister could occupy the center of the scene without Mary's interference, and she seemed to enjoy the situation in the most carefree manner.

"Really, darling, it's a good thing that you're still afflicted by your hangover," she leaned to whisper in Richard's ear, ignoring her Granny's disapproving look. "I would have been very jealous to watch you reel with Edith and my cousin Rose while being stuck here with the rest of the spectators."

Richard, who looked like himself more and more as hours passed, but not enough to join the dancers, leant too, speaking in the same hushed tones as she.

"Jealous of _me _dancing or jealous of me _dancing_?" he asked, changing the emphasis in his question inquisitorially.

"As if I would feel threatened by the notion of you dancing with Cousin Rose!"

"There will be plenty of jigs and reels for our wedding, I promise."

"More seriously, how do you feel?"

She had been taking her breakfast this morning when a rather disheveled and haggard Richard had come back from the special celebration his cousins had organized for _the single man who was getting hitched at last_. Most of the culprits had gone home and probably collapsed in their beds. Surely, they were still under the covers, if Richard's state of inebriation was an indication for the rest of the group. However, contrary to his cousins, her fiancé had social and familial duties to attend to. A bath and fresh shave had restored his human appearance. A bottle of aspirin had found its way to his coat pocket to treat the inevitable hangover. But he had fooled no one, and especially not her all-perceiving granny.

"Well enough to stand the smell of your glass of wine. Not well enough to even try to dance."

"Do I have to worry about you each time you'll go out with your kin?"

"In the past, it would have been wise. Now we're a serious bunch."

Mary raised a dubious eyebrow at this assertion. Walking back half-drunk at nine in the morning was not her definition of "serious".

"Yesterday was an exception."

She let him kiss the fingers of the hand he held, in spite of Aunt Susan's insistent glare.

"Speaking of dancing…" Richard spoke after a moment of admiring silence as some of the younguer guests – Rose's cousins on her father's side – demonstrated the dancing prowess that had enabled them to win a trophy at the latest Highlands games. "We still haven't reached an agreement for the opening waltz. Have you talked with your Papa?"

Mary let him change the topic of conversation diplomatically, not without staring at him and show him he was not off the hook yet. "Well, it's complicated. There are many tensions to reconcile. You refuse to hear any waltz from Strauss at your wedding, on musical taste grounds. Papa isn't sure about a Strauss waltz for patriotic reasons – more probably because he isn't sure he won't stumble on the Emperor Waltz. On the other hand, I decided when I was a girl this would be the dance for my wedding. What should we do?"

"Have you considered the other options I suggested?" he replied more weakly than expected.

Mary smiled: maybe this hangover would give her the leverage she needed to have the dance she wanted.

"Yes, but none is really appealing."

"Tchaikovsky, not appealing?" Richard turned on his chair abruptly to face her with incredulous eyes.

"Not the same sentimental resonance…"

"Don't play that card, it doesn't suit you," Richard mumbled. His still fogged brain seemed at a loss to give him good arguments.

"What card?" she asked with as an innocent smile as she could muster.

"La _Llorona_ does have resonance, at least I hope."

Of course, it did. They had danced to that song, the second time they had met after Cliveden, when he had suggested she accompanied him to a reception at the Mexican embassy. He had kissed her another time then, a more passionate kiss than their first one at Cliveden.

"I don't want to dance with Papa to this song…" she objected.

Richard sighed. "You're really used to have everything your way, aren't you?"

"In some way, I am," she admitted without shame.

"Spoiled child…"

"Which means?"

"That I'll tolerate Strauss for my wedding."

He looked so tired that Mary almost felt bad for taking advantage of his obvious headache. At the same time, if she couldn't have her dreamed-of wedding at Downton, it was important she had her dreamed dance at least. It was irrational, she knew it, but it wasn't that easy to let go of a dream, even if the reality was so appealing. She pressed his hand thankfully.

"Now, you have to convince your Papa, and you won't have the assistance of a bloody hangover," he whispered, mere millimeters from her ear, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. "It's only half a victory, sweetheart."

Ignoring her fiancé's teasing, and a sudden shivering that was not entirely due to her cold, Mary resumed her observation of the twirling dancers. More often than not, her parents would join the dance as well, displaying refreshing spontaneity that they could not show back in Yorkshire. This evening was not an exception, and just like when she was younger, Mary secretly relished spying her parents' exceptional unguarded moment, in quite the same way she enjoyed to tease them about their sleeping accommodations. For many years, she had resented such an intimacy, certain as she was that she would not reach such happiness, especially if her parents went on with their desire to marry her to Patrick, to interfere with her future. Then, after Pamuk, she resented it even more: the scandal would forbid her such happiness forever. During her dance of hesitation with Matthew, those displays of affection had become unbearable, especially during the war. It was if her parents' married life was a projection taunting her, a projection of what was forbidden to her.

So, she had built this cold façade carefully, stone by stone, year after year.

_The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley._

When you could not reach something you desire, it was better to act as if you did not want it after all. With time, you could even persuade yourself you did not want it at all.

Then she had fallen asleep in Richard's arms, absorbing his anguish, letting him absorb hers…

In fact, Mary had always wanted what her parents shared so obviously. And now that she had it, thanks to the most unlikely partner, watching her parents as they jigged and reeled, all happy smiles and tender eyes, was a real pleasure. After everything that had happened this spring with the Spanish flu, it was good to see them together. The nightmare of Spring 1919 was behind them for good. For once in her life, Mary felt almost satisfied with her life, content with the present and confident in the future. It was a new feeling and she could get used to this. Surprised, she felt an involuntary, spontaneous smile form on her untrained features – Lady Mary Crawley did not smile for no apparent reason, after all. Or did she?

However, the sight of a sad lonely figure that observed the ball absently killed the sudden moment of self-content. Anna always struggled to appear cheerful and strong when she was attending to Mary's need, when they talked in the morning about the wedding preparations, whenever the young maid felt observed. Now, forgotten by the happily dancing crowd, Anna had visibly let her melancholy take over her, and looked somewhat smaller, frailer almost.

_If only the nightmare could end for Anna too…_

* * *

_Inverness, August 7th, 1919_

At first, Anna had refused her mistress' invitation, invoking all manner of perfectly reasonable excuses. There was no need for her to join the family on Richard's boat. It was not her place. She was just acting as a Lady's maid to Mary and could not be treated like Miss O'Brien. She was perfectly content to take the road with the rest of the servants who would bring the picnic to the ruins of Urqhart castle.

In reality, she was not content to join anybody at all when she only wanted to escape from this family outing and stay behind, on her own, lick her still open wounds. John's latest letters,which Mrs Hughes had forwarded to Edinburgh, had been a distressing read, and each new day spent far away from Yorkshire was becoming a pure torture. Anna wanted nothing more than to be sent back to Downton, so she could to visit John at last, raise his spirits. She even knew that if she requested it, her wish would be granted. However, at the same time, the idea of abandoning her mistress just a week before her wedding was unconceivable. These conflicting loyalties were draining her last strength, tearing her between her love for her husband and her dedication to Lady Mary.

Was it the reason behind the rule that discouraged servants from marrying and having their own families?

At the same time, the obvious intent behind the invitation was so heartwarming that refusing it felt akin to treason. So, she had bargained – well, as much as a servant was authorized to bargain when offered a very generous proposition – and they decided that, if some members of the family decided to go back directly to Duneagle and not travel on to Inverness and then to the castle, Anna would take their place on the boat.

Around her, the MacClares' servants had finished preparing the chairs and the tables, laying the food on trays and arranging the glasses of fine crystal so that their masters could enjoy this "impromptu" picnic outside, and strolled lazily around the ruins, waiting for the boat to arrive. Since Anna was considered to be lady's maid, the severe butler had decided it was not her place to help with the rest of the servants and sent her to O'Brien and Thomas who enjoyed their professional superiority with glee, smoking their cigarettes under the rare Scottish sun. Not really keen to have an idle chat with the two schemers – and not really wanting to hear O'Brien complain about an imaginary loss of standard that permitted a simple maid to be treated with so much deference – Anna had done some exploring of her own.

The setting was spectacular; she had to admit, especially under the sun. The dark green hills created a sharp contrast against the blue sky, and the black waters absorbed the light. Contrary to other lakes or rivers, nothing reflected on the surface of the loch when one could have expected to observe the reflection of the surrounding hills. Never in her life had she seen such a lake: were there even fish in these muddy waters? Even as she stood by the waterside, she could not see anything, and only thirty centimeters of water were sufficient to hide the ground from the view. Anna made a mental note to ask Sir Richard about it. The ruins of the castle – the butler had explained that it had been blown up by the family that owned it back in the 18th century – added another somber touch to a rather grim scenery. However, there was some kind of odd grandiloquence to the place, and as she walked by a crumbling tower, Anna mused that she understood all those stories about Scottish ghosts a little better. Indeed, the wind in the ruins produced extraordinary sounds that a creative mind could easily attribute to spirits. Emboldened by her discoveries, and noticing that the sails of Sir Richard's boat had only appeared at the other end of the lake, she decided to climb up the hill to have a better view and clear her head – the butler had deprived her of an occasion to drown herself in activity so she needed to find other ways to put John's ordeal at the back of her mind.

The climb was steeper than what she had expected but she managed to walk up to the promontory that dominated the loch. From here, the view was unique, and Anna was glad she had not stayed behind at Duneagle as she had intended to initially. Down the hill, the white tents and table were perfectly aligned, not too far from the waterside – it would be inconvenient to have the family walk to much after their cruise. A plank was ready to help them get down from the boat to an old wooden pier without risking to fall into the water or even wet a single toe. Not for the first time since she entered in service, so many years ago, Anna smiled at the precisely timed ballet unfolding under her eyes. Like any dinner at Duneagle or Downton, a picnic was a matter of codes and rituals. Even more so, one might argue, because the family needed to have the impression of a more relaxed setting without losing the decorum and comfort associated to any dinner indoors. As a result, the workload for the servants was incomparably higher in these circumstances: furniture needed to be moved, plates and glasses needed to counted, packed and unpacked, the cook had to imagine a meal easy to eat outdoors but answering to the family's standards… Every moment of the ballet counted to create an artificial feeling of informality.

Anna chose a bit of crumbled walls that provided a comfortable seat under the sun and observed the slow progression of the boat on the loch. The white sail shined, contrasting with the dark waters, but cast no reflection. As the boat got closer, she became able to differentiate the people on board. Lord Flintshire stood at Sir Richard's side, and seemed very animated about whatever they were talking about, and her Ladyship and Lady Edith sat behind them. More adventurously, Lady Mary and Lady Rose had positioned themselves at the front, lazily enjoying the sunlight. His Lordship looked absorbed by his observation of the water. Was he trying to discern a fish or anything living under the surface? Only the Dowager and her niece were missing: before Anna had left with the other servants, she had heard Lady Mary arguing with her grandmother, encouraging her to come with the family. Obviously, the Dowager had had the final word, as usual one might say.

Finally, the boat reached the shore, carefully maneuvered by Sir Richard, with the assistance of Lord Flintshire, and the ballet resumed. Under the butler's barked orders – it was moment like these that made Anna thankful for working under Mr Carson's and Mrs Hughes' firm but human supervision – the servants stopped their idle walk to go back to their designed posts, like perfectly trained soldiers. The first trays found their way to the shore, to welcome the cruisers with a glass of water and a bit to eat while four solid footmen brought the plank to the boat. One by one, the members of the family stepped down to the wooden pier with more or less ease and grace. Her Ladyship looked like as if she had just remembered long-forgotten movements, and reached the ground without any help. Lady Edith had to lean on a footman while Lady Rose almost fell into the water, obviously overestimating her capacities in her youthful enthusiasm. His Lordship followed and sought a footman's help – he was not a man of the sea, as Anna had heard him say more than once during her years of service. Lady Mary stopped before the plank, considering cautiously for a while, before walking down with dignified but stilted steps. Lord Flintshire joined the shore as naturally as he would have walked down the steps in his own castle.

Finally, Sir Richard left his boat like the grandson of a fisherman would, jumping from the edge to the pier.

From her promontory, Anna could hear the mirth in their voices, and Lady Rose's laughter – in her mother's absence, the young lady seemed even more lively than usual. Suddenly, a surge of curiosity overwhelmed Anna, effectively relegating her dark thoughts to the back of her mind. She wanted to hear their stories and their impressions about the cruise. Surely Lady Mary would find a minute or two to share an anecdote. Being on this boat seemed so much fun! With a new spring in her step, Anna descended the hill to greet her mistress.

After much consideration, she would like it very much if she could have a place on the way back.

The family had reached the tent and accepted the offered glass of Champagne, with the exception of Lady Mary and Sir Richard who dragged behind, walking hand in hand.

For the first time in weeks, Anna did not feel jealous of such a sight.


End file.
